


Frostfire

by Jaina_Pridemoore



Series: Jaina the Red [1]
Category: Warcraft - All Media Types, Warcraft III, World of Warcraft
Genre: Alternate History, Bisexual Jaina Proudmoore, Conlang, F/F, F/M, Horde! Jaina AU, M/M, Size Kink, Theramore joins the horde, Thraina - Freeform, Trans Male Character, Varian stans do not interact, Worldbuilding, also found family, lots of found family, this is just gonna b 100k+ of Horde propaganda and Jaina being a bisexual disaster
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-06-28
Updated: 2020-01-21
Packaged: 2020-05-28 09:18:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 14
Words: 79,960
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19391134
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jaina_Pridemoore/pseuds/Jaina_Pridemoore
Summary: Branded a traitor and banished from the Alliance, the Lady of Theramore is left with only one place to turn.If only it were as simple as declaring allegiance. Between bitter grudges, culture clash, violent dissent, and... *inconvenient* feelings, Jaina and Thrall have their work cut out for them.Part one of seven.Credit for this AU goes to Howlingmadness on Tumblr. I am but a humble fool that catches fic ideas like fevers.





	1. Branded

**Author's Note:**

> I'm still writing Nor the Arrow for its Swiftness. This AU just hit me light a runaway train and I could not resist. 
> 
> This will be a lot of politics, action & plot w shipping (and smut) woven throughout. 
> 
> Enjoy <3

“It is easier to forgive an enemy than to forgive a friend.” 

― William Blake

*****

**23 A.D.P**

**Theramore**

Ten months.

Forty weeks.

Two hundred and eighty --no, wait-- with an average of thirty-point-four days in a month… 

Three hundred days. Roughly. 

Three hundred days had passed since she helped the Horde put an axe in her father’s chest. 

And in all that time, there had been no word whatsoever from Kul Tiras, or from Stormwind, or from any of the other formerly-Allied kingdoms. 

She’d drafted letters, of course. For King Wrynn, King Trollbane, even King _Greymane._ For Tandred.

For mother. 

She’d written and rewritten, explaining the situation as best she could -- what they’d achieved together, her ragged band of survivors and the Kal’dorei and Thrall’s new Horde, the common ground they’d found, the tentative peace and _hope_ they’d built by the time her father came. What he’d done. What he’d intended to do. 

What she _had_ to do.

(Hadn’t she?)

All those letters now sat in a box on her desk, useless. 

Dalaran had fallen, and with it the arcane mail system that had once connected the Eastern Kingdoms. And Theramore had too few seaworthy vessels for her to send one on a voyage it was by no means guaranteed to survive just to deliver a few confessions of guilt and pleas for aid. 

Via fishing and trade with Durotar, those ships were the only thing keeping her people from going hungry -- and from succumbing to the shivering, aching fever that had befallen so many. 

It had killed over a dozen before she even learned that the Darkspear had medicine for it. Most of the victims had been very old… or very young. 

Three had been pregnant. 

**_The letters_ ** _, Jaina. Think about the letters._

Stormwind… she knew nothing about Stormwind, not for sure. It had only recently been rebuilt, and was likely swamped by refugees from Lordaeron, if not fighting the Plague itself… but Kul Tiras? Even with the fleet depleted by war and kept busy by pirates and Zandalari, _surely_ they had a ship or two to spare. 

But no. No word at all. 

Thus the knot of anxiety in her gut. Some days it was better. Some days it was worse. 

Today it was worse. 

Jaina shut the report she’d been staring at and rubbed the back of her neck. 

Tension headaches were a daily occurence, now. 

The tea Pained made for her no longer had any effect, and the ‘painkiller’ elixirs so favored by the partygoers of Dalaran were a rabbit-hole she feared to dive down. 

Pained’s massages, however… well. They were effective, and that was _all._

Jaina was already struggling to manage a colony. She had neither the time nor the energy to be _discovering_ things about herself right now. 

As luck (or something else) would have it, Pained chose that very moment to knock, identifying herself with a quick, soft triple-rap on the thick oak of the office door. 

With a sigh, Jaina sat up straighter in her chair. “Come in.” 

It swung open with a sharp squeak -- exactly as Pained had intended when she altered the hinges. 

The Kal’dorei bodyguard stepped silently in and stood aside, opening the way for --and then shutting the door behind-- one of the medics.

“Tamberlyn,” said Jaina, rising. The words _how are you_ caught in her throat. The answer was plain, and grim.

“Lady Proudmoore.” Tamberlyn curtsied quite elegantly for someone with such exhaustion in her voice. Such bags under her eyes. “Ye asked fer my report on th’fever.” 

“Yes, but--” _you could have written._ Jaina held her tongue. _You didn’t have to walk all this way._

But the poor woman probably needed a _break_. Tides only knew what the sick ward smelled like right now. 

“Thank you for taking the time to visit me,” she said instead. “Please, sit.” With a wave of her hand, another chair scooted up in front of her desk. 

“I… shouldn’t.” Tamberlyn tucked one of many stray hairs behind her ear. “Doctor VanHowzen..." 

Jaina tried her best at an encouraging smile. “Let yourself rest a moment, Tamberlyn.” 

The medic hesitated, then gathered her stained skirts and sat… with a slight, tired smirk pulling at the corner of her lips. “As long as yer restin’ wi’ me, milady.” She tipped her head a bit. “Light knows ye need it.” 

“I know it too,” Jaina protested. “Would you like something to drink?” She pointed to the pitchers on her side table. 

“Some cool water’d be wonderful.” 

Jaina levitated a pitcher and two chalices onto her desk, and chilled the lot with another wave. 

“Thank ye, milady.” 

“Please, just Jaina will suffice.” She filled a cup and slid it across the desk. 

Tamberlyn looked uncomfortable with that -- and Pained looked disapproving, however subtly, probably recalling the months it had taken for Jaina to stop reflexively curtsying to people she now outranked. 

“...Jaina,” Tamberlyn said, as if testing the sound.

“When appearances aren’t important, at least.” She glanced at Pained again. The elven woman’s poker face was impressive, but Jaina had spent enough time around her to know when it hid a smirk. 

Tamberlyn sipped her water, and seemed to relax a fraction. “Thank ye then, Jaina.” 

“You’ve earned it a hundred times over.” Jaina filled her own cup. “How are Allen and Brant?” 

“Still can’t stand each other.” The medic smiled like a long-suffering matron. “But Allen’s at least stopped givin’ bloody sermons whenever Brant offers ‘im one of those ‘invigoratives.’ An’ Brant seems t’have finally got those trollish herbs mixed right fer humans.” 

“That’s a relief,” said Jaina. “And… Ysuria?” 

Tamberlyn’s face fell a bit. “She’s… she’s holdin’ on. It’s the magical… _deprivation_ , near as I can tell. Her body’s jest not used t’fightin’ off illness without the extra help.” 

“I feared as much.” Jaina looked down into her chalice -- and then over at the other pitcher, full of orcish mead. “I haven’t stopped researching a solution for that, but without the resources of Dalaran…” 

Tamberlyn sighed. “Aye. Have ye considered… maybe askin’ if the Darkspear might be willin’ ta spare one of their--” 

The sound of the Bell ringing cut her short. 

Jaina looked to Pained, whose ears had slanted towards the bell tower-- 

Once for a travelers approaching, two if they came by land— 

And three if by sea. 

Then nothing. 

Jaina’s chair screeched over the floor behind her as she stood. “Pained, can you hear--” 

“Window,” she said.

Jaina unlatched it with a twitch of her fingers and opened it with another. A cool sea breeze spilled into the room. Long lavender ears twitched, angled. 

“Due east,” said Pained. “Ten miles out.”

“How many?”

“One yet.”

“And the colors?” 

“Listening.” 

Tamberlyn downed her water, and stood. “I’ll be gettin’ back to it, then.”

Jaina spared her a tight smile, a nod-- “Thank you for your time, Tamberlyn.”

“And yours, milady.” 

Another curtsy, and she was gone. 

Pained caught the door before it could swing closed. What--?

“Blue and gold,” she said. 

_Stormwind._

Jaina’s heart dropped into her belly. With a shaking hand, she set her chalice on the desk, and scooted out from--

“My Lady,” Said Pained. 

_I am about to tell you to do something for your own good,_ she meant. 

“Finish it.” 

Jaina forced herself to take a breath, and then to sip her water until it was gone, knowing the elf would only prolong this if she gulped it too quickly. 

“Another.” 

She obeyed. 

Only once she’d drained it again did Pained relent, re-opening the door all the way and standing aside. 

Jaina stepped around her desk, summoned her staff to her hand, and rushed from the room, trusting her bodyguard to follow. 

Down a spiral staircase and around a corner, she almost ran into Captain Vimes, who was hurrying the other way in full armor. 

“Milady--”

“I know. Report.”

“It appears to be a light frigate -- unescorted. All guards are at their stations and awaiting orders.” 

Jaina frowned. That… didn’t seem right, not for a cross-ocean voyage, but if Stormwind’s situation was anywhere near as bad as she feared, it did make sense. “How long until it’s in range to launch rowboats?”

“Bit less than an hour, Ma’am.” 

Her throat was dry. 

She thought she’d prepared herself for whatever would come, but now-- 

She swallowed. 

“I want all civilians moved to the inland side of the Isle with enough dry rations and freshwater to last…” How long did it take to ride from Orgrimmar on wolfback rather than horseback? “Two weeks.” Just to be safe. “And ready the harbor guards to meet a landing party.” 

“In combat, or--”

“Either.” 

“Shall we evacuate the docks?” 

“No. Not yet-- but make sure you’re ready if we need to.” 

“Aye, Ma’am.”

“Dismissed.” 

He turned on his heel, and all but sprinted away -- just in time to pass Tervosh as he blinked down the hall. 

“There you are!” Said the mage. “The city council is convening downstairs. It should take them a few minutes yet.” 

“Thank you.” Jaina allowed herself a brief stop, a quick breath. “And Kinndy?” 

Tervosh faltered. “I’m not--”

“Find her, please -- and make sure she doesn’t act on any _ideas_ she may have.” 

He nodded. “Right.” 

Then he was gone in a flash of magic. 

Jaina gripped her staff, and marched on. 

*****

When she finally came to a stop on the seaward battlement, the better part of an hour had passed… and the frigate had dropped anchor at the edge of the bay. 

As Jaina watched, flanked by her soldiers, a launch was lowered from the ship’s deck into the brackish waters. Someone handed her a spyglass, and she looked through it. 

And saw no armor. No weapons. Just a dozen men in stiff, high-collared Stormwind uniforms, being rowed towards her harbor. Their beards were full, well-maintained, a few peppered gray… 

Not the faces of active-duty soldiers.

The knot in her gut tightened. 

She had sided with orcs and trolls. She had _killed the Grand Admiral of the Alliance,_ and in response… they sent one small frigate?

She angled the spyglass at the frigate and scanned its deck. No firing ports opened, no soldiers stood ready. Just sailors, tying up the sheets and lounging on the rails. 

She stowed the spyglass in her robes. 

“No one move,” she said.

Then she clenched her first, pictured the center of her office, and whispered. 

A flash of light and unpleasant tug later, she stepped back around her desk and threw open the drawer. 

A tin of wax and the seal of Theramore --really just a lump of iron with the rough shape of the Isle wrought into one end-- joined her stack of parchments on the hardwood surface. 

A finer seal sat at the back of the drawer, with the Proudmoore anchor carefully engraved on one side. 

She snatched up a quill, dipped it, and scribbled quickly. 

_Thrall,_

_Stormwind frigate in the bay. Just one. No hostilities yet. ~~But after what I did~~ _

_I haven’t been able to get any letters across the sea. They know only that their Grand Admiral is dead, and that I am to blame._

_I have a bad feeling about this._

_I know you have scouts in Dustwallow. Farseers. Please -- contact them. Find out what you can._

_I want to hope this is a good thing. ~~But I just don’t know.~~ But if it is not, I need your help. _

_Your friend and ally,_

_Jaina_

She read it thrice before folding the letter shut. Then she conjured a flame in her palm, levitated the tin of wax over it, and let it drip onto the parchment. Onto this, she pressed the seal, and took a deep breath. In… and out. 

Not bothering to put away any of the materials, she seized the letter and teleported back to the battlements. 

The guards were used to this, and barely flinched.

“Someone take this to the falconer.” She said. “Have it sent to Razor Hill with all haste -- _not Orgimmar.”_

That was important. Those damned flying wildcats the Horde was so fond of _ate_ any bird that got close. She’d lost more than one letter to Thrall, that way. 

Someone took the letter and sprinted away, armor rattling loudly.

She looked back out over the bay. The rowboat had covered maybe a third of the distance. 

She paused. Dug the spyglass from her pocket and turned to the soldier who had handed it to her. 

“This was yours.” 

He blinked. “Yes, Ma’am.”

“Thank you.” 

She handed it off, and then turned back to the problem before her. Watched the boat come slowly in. 

“Captain.” 

Vimes’ armor clanked. “Ma’am.” 

“Fetch a few of the councilors. They don’t look like they’re here to fight — neither should we.” 

It still felt odd, commanding men so much older and more experienced to her. She'd only just turned twenty, and yet they rushed to obey as surely as for any general or highlord or—

She nipped that thought in the bud, and made for the docks. 

*

Eleven of them. All men.

Ten looked older than Jaina by decades, but the eleventh was younger, and more spry, and first up onto the dock, reaching down to help his elders out of the launch as the oarsmen tied it up. When all eleven pairs of pristine black boots were firmly on dry wood, the man turned. He was fairly but not remarkably handsome-- his red hair cut short and neat, one stray lock dangling rakishly down his brow, moustache and goatee trimmed with the utmost care...

Where the others wore blue jackets with gold buttons and trim, his were silver, and where they bore a few small medals each, he bore none — only a small lion of Stormwind on his chest. 

Back straight and chin up, Jaina turned to Captain Vimes, and nodded. 

“The Lady Proudmoore welcomes you to Theramore,” He announced. “City of survivors.” 

She stepped forward, no more than a few long strides between her and the visitors, and did her best to project.

“It has been too long since we had any contact with our brethren across the sea. Many of my people are eager for news of their ancestral homes and relatives. Other things, as well — but first I must know: what brings you to our shores?” 

The redhead knocked his heels together and bowed stiffly at the hip. Clasped his hands behind his back. “Your city is a balm upon our weary eyes, Lady Proudmoore. My name is Erik Morse, and my comrades and I come on behalf of King Varian Wrynn of Stormwind and the Alliance, to take stock of the situation here — and to discuss recent and current events.” 

The knot tightened, and Jaina’s heart quickened. She did not let it show— just gripped her staff harder, to hide the shake in her hands. 

“Ours is a mission of diplomacy and relief,” he finished. 

“A mission most welcome,” she replied. “Please, come inside! Your journey has been long, and the climate here can be exhausting for new arrivals.” 

“You are most gracious, My Lady.” He turned to his companions, who one by one smiled, bowed—though not as deeply— and introduced themselves. 

When that was done, Jaina bid them follow, and marched toward the keep. Pained fell in step behind her, the city guard clanked along behind Pained, and the emissaries followed. 

*****

Her heart only sped faster as they settled into the large room that had effectively become the city council chamber. 

Lacking wine or ale, she decided orcish firewater was decidedly inappropriate, and served everyone water with a few waves of her hand.

Her staff she rested against the back of her high chair, and interlaced her fingers on the table. Two guards, in cloth and leather rather than steel flanked the door, and Pained stood still and silent somewhere over Jaina’s right shoulder, worth ten men in a fight. Ten _human_ men, at least. Hopefully. 

But hopefully there’d be no need for her. 

“This one looks capable,” said Morse, as if reading her thoughts. “However did you acquire an elven bodyguard, Lady Proudmoore?” 

_And what sort of elf_ **_is_ ** _she,_ asked the ever-so-slight squint accompanying that question. 

The knot eased, ever so slightly. Jaina tried not to smirk as she spoke. “Pained was charged with my protection by High Priestess Tyrande Whisperwind of the Kal’dorei,” she said. “Prior to the Battle of Mount Hyjal.” 

She left them to wonder the what most of that statement _meant._ Information on the Night Elves would be theirs only when she could confirm their intentions. 

She might have to tell them of the Battle, though. Of her _allies_ in that battle. 

“My Lady led the forces of Theramore to great effect against the demons of the Burning Legion,” Pained added. 

Several pairs of eyes widened, and blinked, and flicked back and forth between Jaina and her bodyguard. 

Erik Morse’s did not. He sipped his water, gaze remaining firmly but calmly upon Jaina. “It seems we have much to catch up on.” 

“Indeed,” she replied, and began channelling her mother. “Can I assume that your presence here is a sign of Stormwind’s good health?”

Morse smiled tightly. “Stormwind may not be what it was for some years yet. But when we embarked the harvest was good, most of the war’s refugees were on their way to being safely housed, and the Scourge had not been sighted south of Tirisfal for two years.” 

A weight Jaina had not been aware of lifted from Jaina’s shoulders. 

“The Kirin Tor, meanwhile,” 

—Her heart leapt— 

“—have been rebuilding at a truly impressive pace, if the reports are to be believed. That said, there is much rebuilding to be done.” 

“Of course.” If there was a slight waver in her voice, no one commented on it. She gathered her wits, and took as deep a breath as she could without being obvious about it. “If there are no other matters more pressing, I would explain the circumstances of the Grand Admiral’s death.” 

Morse inclined his head, just slightly. “I can think of none more pressing.” 

“Very well.” She took a sip of water, and wished it were something stronger. “The precipitating events began shortly after our arrival, of course.” 

“Of course.” 

She took a slightly more obvious breath, and launched into it. 

*****

Sleep did not come easily, that night. 

They had talked until sundown. 

When she’d finally finished retelling a slightly edited version of events, barely holding back tears and not daring to move her hands for fear they’d shake, the diplomats had questions. 

So many questions… and yet only the slightest hints of disdain. Of judgement. 

_Our mission is not to pass judgement,_ Morse had said. _That task falls to the King alone. We are here only for information._

He had led their side of the discussion. He was sharper than the rest, and more charismatic. If it weren’t for the ball of _dread_ in her belly, she might have been charmed. 

He let on very little. 

Jaina didn’t trust him one fucking bit. 

After the bear in the room was out of the way, one of the others --an older man, greying, named Thorpe-- had inquired about the wellbeing of Theramore. As if she hadn’t just spent an hour confessing to her father’s murder. 

And tomorrow she was to lead them on a tour of the city. 

She barely remembered the end of the meeting. Or getting back to her room. 

That happened sometimes, now. _Dissociation,_ Pained called it. 

So no. 

Sleep did not come easily, that night. 

Nor did it last very long. 

As Jaina lay half-awake, faint and indistinct dreams swirling about her, a whisper cut into the fog. 

_“My Lady.”_

Then came a hand on her shoulder, and she jolted up, pulling away, staff flying into her hand before she fully knew what she was seeing. 

Pained’s eyes glowed soft through the darkness. She was crouched beside Jaina’s bed, one gloved finger pressed to her amethyst lips, the angle of the moonlight accentuating her graceful cheekbones -- and something bloomed in Jaina’s weary chest. 

She was _beautiful._

_“Freeze the window shut,”_ she whispered.

And then Jaina was fully awake. 

Her blood ran cold. 

_“Latch and frame. The door as well.”_

She shoved Jaina’s robes into her hands. _“And dress. Quickly.”_

_“Pained—”_

Finger to lips. 

Jaina dropped her staff onto her bed and obeyed, blood gone from cold to hot, heart pounding— 

Just as she was pulling on her first boot, something quietly _thumped_ in the hall outside. Pained rose, putting herself between Jaina and the door, eyes on the window and ears flicking back and forth. 

Then she vaulted over the bed and landed in a crouch against the wall beside the window, drew a dagger from her belt, and gave Jaina a look that said _Be ready._

All without any more sound than a cat leaping across the floor. 

Jaina pulled on her other boot, and picked up her staff. 

Pained gestured to her bed, over, behind—

Jaina dropped onto all fours, hiding herself from the window. 

The doorhandle squeaked just slightly, almost inaudible. 

It wouldn’t have woken her. 

Something scratched in the lock. 

Silence. 

A shadow fell across the room. 

She reached within herself, bringing mana tingling into her fingertips. Held her breath. 

The latch rattled, just as quiet. Then silence. 

Something _hissed,_ orange light flaring over the floor, almost like— 

The window _slammed_ open.

Boots hit the floor — one pair, two, three— 

A blade hit flesh, once-twice in quick succession, and a man cried out— 

_Thud-thud_

_“Ugh!”_

Someone toppled against her dresser, sending books and knick-knacks scattering across the floor, and she heard more blows, something _cracking—_

Someone kicked the door. Hard. Ice cracked, but the lock held. 

_“Get—!”_

Pained _flipped_ backward over the bed and landed in a crouch, dark blood splattered across her face, more on her daggers--

The bed creaked beneath someone’s weight. 

Jaina gathered mana in her free hand, and _lifted._

It hit the ceiling as fast and hard as she could make it, and something that was not mattress _thudded_ heavily against the wood. Jaina rolled away across the floor, towards Pained, who grabbed one her arm and hauled her to her feet-- 

The bed struck down with a splintering _crack --_ and a yell. 

A body bounced off the mattress, and onto the floor between it and the window. 

Then the door slammed open -- and Pained _flew_ at it, boot striking dead center and slamming it into the man charging through, knocking him against the side of her dresser and the elf was already vaulting _over_ the door, and falling upon him with both daggers.

 _“Agh--_ **_fuck! Help--!"_ **

Blood spattered. He went still.

Pained stepped between Jaina and the broken bed, breathing heavily. 

Jaina conjured a magelight. 

The man who’d kicked the door sat slumped against her dresser, blood gurgling from a massive gash in his neck, soaking his uniform. 

The arm of another lay across the floor, its owner hidden behind the bed. 

And in front of the window, Erik Morse rose to his feet, panting, teeth bared and smeared with the blood pouring from his nose. 

Jaina angled her staff at him. 

_“Do it,”_ he snarled. “Blast your only chance at an explanation out the window.” 

“Speak quickly,” Pained growled. 

He straightened up. Wiped his face. Sheathed the machete he’d been wielding -- and tossed something onto the bed.

Pained tensed, but it landed harmlessly, and lay inert. A scroll case. 

_“For the Alliance,”_ Morse hissed. 

And then he leapt out the window. 

Pained was at the sill in a heartbeat, looking out. 

Someone shouted, downstairs. 

Quivering, Jaina stepped to the bed, and picked up the scroll case. 

Pained’s gloved hand seized her wrist, smearing still-warm blood smeared over her skin, and her stomach lurched, but the elf had already let go, case in hand, and stepped away. 

And Jaina stared. 

Pained's lovely face was tight with pain, and her hands-- 

She gasped. “You’re _shaking!”_

“Poison,” Pained grit out. “On his blades.” 

Only then did Jaina notice the tiny cuts on her cheek, her neck-- 

Pained popped open the scroll case, and slid its contents into her palm. Turned it over. Sniffed it. _Tasted_ it. 

Paused. 

Then she held it out. 

Jaina’s breaths came hard and fast. 

Her staff felt like the only thing keeping her upright. 

_None of them_ were diplomats. 

This was-- this was-- what? An attempt on her life? An attempt to kidnap her? 

“My Lady.”

Pained’s voice was soft, and smooth despite the obvious pain, the shaking-- 

“Are you alright?” Jaina’s voice was anything but. “You--” 

“I’m still alive, awake, in control of my body, and still have feeling. That feeling just happens to be pain.” 

A choked laugh tumbled out of Jaina’s throat. “Your Common is getting really good.” 

Pained smiled, jaw still clenched, eyes still narrowed. “I’m fine, My Lady.”

“You’re _not.”_ Oh. _There_ were the tears. 

“Please.” Pained stepped closer, took Jaina’s free hand, and pressed the scroll into it. 

Jaina took a deep and shaky breath. 

Nodded. 

Pained let go of her hand, and began searching the corpses. 

The seal keeping the scroll shut was that of Stormwind. 

Jaina broke it, and unrolled the parchment. 

**_TO WHOM IT MAY CONCERN_ **

_**I, King Varian Wrynn, Son of Llane, High King of Stormwind and the Alliance,** hereby charge the L **ady Jaina Proudmoore** with the crimes of **Conspiring with Enemies of the Human Race** , the **Murder of her Lord Father** , Grand Admiral Daelin Proudmoore of Kul Tiras, and with **TREASON AGAINST THE ALLIANCE** \-- and indeed against all of humanity. _

_With this decree, I, King Varian Wrynn, strip the traitor Jaina Proudmoore of all titles and inheritances and **FOREVER BANISH HER** and all her accomplices and associates from all the kingdoms and territories of the Alliance, **effective immediately.** _

_Upon receipt of this decree, the traitor Proudmoore and all her accomplices and associates have **until dawn to surrender themselves into Alliance custody.** _

_Failure to do so will be met with our swift and uncompromising wrath._

**_Signed,_ **

**_King Varian Wrynn_ **

The paper slipped from Jaina’s fingers and floated to the floor, stained with tears.

Outside, the Bell began to ring, again and again. Shouts of alarm and command echoed up through the night. Boots thudded up the tower stairs, and Pained readied herself for battle once more. 

And Jaina tried to. 

_Traitor._

_Forever banished._

“Lady Proudmoore!” That was Captain Vimes, she knew his voice-- “Lady Proudmoore!” 

He staggered onto the landing outside, and faltered -- presumably at the sight of the guards the intruders must have slain to reach her. 

“What happened--” 

“Report,” Jaina croaked. 

“Ships, Ma’am, in the Bay!” His face was pale, tense, one hand clenched around the hilt of his sword-- _“Kul Tiran warships.”_

No. 

No no no-- 

_“Five of them.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Put THAT in your pipe and smoke it. 
> 
> This isn't proofread or anything, so. 
> 
> I wrote it in like 5 hours because help me. 
> 
> More to come!
> 
> EDIT: In canon, Jaina was actually born 3 years before the First War, making her 26 in 23 ADP (After the Dark Portal). I've made her younger (born 3 ADP rather than 3 BDP) because it makes her story more intense for me. Sweet stressed baby bi w the weight of the world on her shoulders.


	2. Blood and Thunder

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Pissed-off Kul Tirans + Onyxia manipulating Varian = Not a Great Time

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wrote half of this while taking Lyfts between various Pride events. I am drunk. This is not edited. 
> 
> Does anyone else have too many feelings about orcs?

“What—” Jaina swallowed, throat dry as Durotar. “But the _Bell—_ how did they—” 

“Fog, Ma’am.” Vimes’ brow was slick with sweat, his voice tight. “A fog rolled in hours ago, we— we didn’t see them until they were already here.” 

Tidesages. 

They’d sent… 

No.

 _She’d_ sent.

Father was dead. Mother would be Lord Admiral, now. 

_Mother_ had sent an invasion fleet after her. 

Jaina choked on a sob. Clamped a hand over her mouth. 

Pained caught her shoulders and led her to what was left of her bed, saying something Jaina couldn’t understand, could barely _hear_ over her own thudding heartbeat—

Five ships. 

Thirty cannons each. 

Fifteen on each side. 

_Seventy-five guns_ that could fire upon the city, pulverizing any and all defense while the five hundred soldiers aboard those ships made a landing, and then… 

_All her allies and accomplices._

She had to surrender. 

She had to let Kul Tiras lay claim to Theramore once again. Let them use it as a staging ground, just as father wanted. Let them drag her people into another war. Let her people be forced to fight and kill Thrall’s.

But if she _didn’t—_

“My Lady.” Pained’s grip was strong but gentle, one hand rubbing soothing circles on her back, but the scent of blood was thick in Jaina’s nose, the tears blurring her vision, and the _Bell_ was still ringing, ringing, _ringing—_

_“Breathe_ , my lady.”

She sucked in a ragged breath, and shuddered it out. 

“That’s it. Deep and slow. In…” 

Gasped in.

“...and out.”

Shuddered out. 

“Good. Keep breathing.” 

She did her best.

Her hand hurt from gripping her staff. 

Pained stayed with her, voice low and smooth. “Jaina.” 

“What—?”

“Jaina Proudmoore,” Pained murmured. “Lady of Theramore. Deliverer of hundreds. Builder of bridges. Slayer of demons. _Savior of the world._ ” 

Something loosened inside of her. Breathing became easier. The room around her became clearer. 

The Captain had left at some point. 

“He’s gone to report to the General,” said Pained, following her gaze. “And the general knows what he’s doing. He is handling the situation as best he can.” 

The Bell had stopped ringing. She could hear guardsmen shouting. 

Oh Tides, the City Guard… 

There were barely one hundred of them. 

“Can you walk, My Lady?”

Jaina hesitated, then nodded.

“Good. We need to get you into the keep.” 

“No.” 

The elf blinked her luminous eyes. Frowned, ever-so-slightly.

“I need to _surrender,_ Pained, and you… you need to run. Go back to your people, live in _peace…”_ She took a shaky breath. “You’ve served me faithfully and well, and… I _know_ you were just following the High Priestess’ orders… but _thank you.”_ More tears leaked out. Jaina tossed her staff onto the bed and hugged Pained with all her strength, all her gratitude, all her regrets— “I don’t— I don’t think I could have done this without you.” 

A moment passed, in which Jaina realized she’d never been this close to her bodyguard, never been this physical, and a spark of panic threatened to ignite her once again— but then Pained’s strong arms encircled her, squeezing tight, and the elf said: 

“You’re wrong.” 

She pulled away, hands back on Jaina’s shoulders, expression soft despite the pain she was obviously _still in—_

“You _could_ have done this without me. You would have. And this… assignment, these orders? The High Priestess is _ten thousand years old,_ My Lady. She sees things others miss. She saw that my heart needed more than just purpose. It needed an adventure, and that is what this has been. To fight alongside the younger tribes, to see one of the _youngest_ of them achieve such things, against all odds, and to _aid_ in that endeavor? This is beyond duty, Jaina.” 

Pained’s hand left her right shoulder, and came to cup her cheek. “This has been an _honor.”_

With that she leaned forward, and Jaina’s heart leapt—

Soft lips pressed against Jaina’s forehead, and all the breath left her body. 

“That said…” Pained pulled away once more, to look her in the eye— all trace of softness gone. “My orders stand. I am your shield, and _I will not leave you.”_

Jaina had no response for that. Only tears, and nodding, and another hug for her protector. 

The Bell rang again. 

Once for travelers, two if by land… 

Silence. 

No no no no—

Those soldiers could already be ashore, could have used the fog to land and surround the city—

She snatched up her staff, dashed from the room, and promptly tripped over the armored corpse of one of her guards. 

Her staff stabbed at the floor hard, taking a bit of the impact off her knee, but she still winced in pain.

With a grunt, she shoved herself to her feet and ran down the curving hall. There, set into the inland side of the tower, was a large, circular window, overlooking the city, the marsh beyond—

—and the bridge connecting them, along which three figures were riding. Not the gallop of horses, but the loping gait of huge wolves. 

Jaina slumped forward in relief, bracing herself on the sill, and almost cried.

_Thrall._

Then she turned, and found Pained standing an arm’s length behind her. 

“Are you—” She started, and stopped. “You should go to the medics.” 

“I will not leave you.” 

“Pained—” 

“If the poison were deadly, or even debilitating, I would know by now. And this is not the worst pain I have felt.” Her eyes flicked to the window. “Are we going to greet your friends?” 

Jaina looked her over. The shakes were gone, but there was still a wrinkle between her whisker-like brows, a tightness to her lips—

 _Jaina you are about to be under siege you do not have time to be staring at her_ **_lips—_**

“Yes.” She planted her staff on the floor between them. “Take hold.”

When the light faded and the humid air of the marsh engulfed them, the riders were only several yards away. Two of the wolves startled, springing back and snapping at the air, 

The third simply slowed, bearing its rider into the light of the bridge-side braziers. 

That rider was not Thrall. 

Jaina did her best not to let the disappointment show. 

Atop the great beast, stroking a gauntleted hand through its ebony fur, sat an orc who must have stepped through the Dark Portal already full-grown. Grey hairs streaked through his four long braids, and the wrinkles beneath his white warpaint were those of a man who had spent many seasons snarling at his enemies. His two outer tusks reached almost to his deep-set golden eyes, which flicked between Jaina and her bodyguard. 

He dismounted a dozen strides in front of her, leaping down onto the cobblestones with a grace that belied his size.

Jaina stood up a bit straighter. 

His armor probably weighed more than she did, all thick steel plates and spikes and leather straps, leaving only one boulder-like shoulder and powerful arm exposed. 

_“Hail!”_ His fist hit his chest with a resounding _clang._

The other two quickly followed suit. 

“Throm’ka!” She called back. “What mighty warriors come before the gates of Theramore?” 

“I am Saurfang, High Overlord of the New Horde. You are Proudmoore?” 

“Yes, I—” 

“The Warchief is camped in the marsh with two hundred warriors.” 

Two _hundred?_ All the way from Durotar? How—? 

“What do we face?” He asked. 

She gripped her staff. “Five ships. Each with enough firepower to overwhelm the city alone -- and each carrying at _least_ a hundred soldiers.” 

“Human?” 

“Yes, but—” 

“Then the odds are in our favor.” He rolled his armored shoulder— the other was bare, why was—? “I would meet with your General.” 

“Wait!” She wet her lips. “There doesn’t have to _be_ a fight. They’re here for _me_ , and those they deem complicit in… what happened to my father.” 

Saurfang blinked, looked her up and down like one would a soldier. But then his nose wrinkled, and his fangs glinted in the firelight. “And the city?” 

Jaina stood her ground. “They didn't bring an army just for one girl." 

A deep, guttural sound emanated from his throat.

She stood her ground. “I don’t like it either, but I will _not_ let my people be slaughtered just to protect me.” 

The sound became a growl, but his eyes were on the bay, not Jaina. “Do what you must. But know this: we will notallow _them_ another foothold here. If you surrender, _we_ will take the city.” 

“What— did you not hear me? They have _dozens of cannons!_ They can turn the city into _rubble!”_

“Better rubble than a threat to the Horde.” 

_What—?_

**“** ** _No!”_** She took a step toward him, bared her teeth, and spoke from her chest. “Where _exactly_ is the Warchief camped? I will speak with him direct—” 

_KA—_ **_FWOOM_ **

The night suddenly became considerably brighter. 

Saurfang’s gaze flicked over Jaina’s shoulder.

She turned.

From behind the city, firelight beyond the power of any canon bloomed through the fog. The waters flickered and shone.

She looked to Saurfang, already forming the question—

But he looked just as confused. 

For a moment, they stared at each other. 

The wolves yipped and snarled. 

The light faded. 

Then Jaina struck her staff against the cobblestones and summoned a corona of arcane power into her fist, such that it glowed brighter than the braziers, brighter than the moon above—

Pained stepped into the spell’s radius beside her. 

Jaina glared at the High Overlord, and said: 

_“Don’t_ go anywhere.” 

Then she was back on the landing, standing in the blood of murdered guardsmen. Pained stepped in front of her, scouting the hall, and then her study. 

“Clear.” 

Jaina followed her in— and found the room bathed in firelight from the window. 

She strode to it, and looked. 

One of the galleons was ablaze. 

Flames poured from a ragged hole in its starboard hull, flaring and flashing as the remaining powder-kegs ignited. The only sails not burning were in the water, the mast that held them severed and dangling over the side of the ship. Sailors hurled themselves into the dark waters, and flaming chunks of wood still rained from the sky. 

“What in the world…?” 

Then, on the other end of the line, another galleon opened fire on its allies. Fifteen guns spat fire and iron, pummeling the ship next to it with volley after volley. 

Grey smoke mingled with black, thickening the fog.

Its target was half-shredded before it could fire a single shot. By the time it returned fire it too was ablaze, rowboats being lowered frantically into the water. Beside it, the two unharmed ships unfurled their sails, heaving forward toward the city to slowly corner the betrayer—

Which was when _another_ set of cannons flashed from across the bay.

Through fog and darkness, Jaina couldn’t see the source— only the cannonfire itself, and the impacts of it on the hulls and decks of the Kul Tiran vessels, which were still turning their broadsides on the traitor vessel. 

Jaina had seen enough. 

She turned away from the window, and took Pained’s hand. 

Saurfang didn’t react much, when they reappeared. His wolf flinched, and snarled, but he just looked grumpy.

That may have just been his face. Jaina couldn’t tell. 

“Someone else has come to our aid,” she told him. “Or… at least seized their chance to weaken the Kul Tiran navy.” 

The old orc straightened his back, and flexed his massive hands. “Battle is upon us either way.” 

Battle. 

Hellfire and spilled guts flashed through Jaina’s mind. Screams rang in her ears. 

She swallowed them down. 

“Yes.” 

Saurfang grunted… and saluted once again, fist to chest. “Then the Horde fights with you.” 

With that he leapt onto his wolf, and turned to his companions. _“Ak’gaz! Khas!”_

They spurred their mounts, and began riding back down the bridge. 

Saurfang gripped the reins, and looked down at Jaina— who tilted her chin up, and holding his fearsome gaze, said:

“Azgar mok’thorin-aung.” 

_Death to our enemies._

His nostrils flared… and the faintest smile tugged at his tusk-stretched lips. 

“Lok’tar, Lady Proudmoore.” 

Then he was off. Jaina only caught a brief glimpse of the truly massive axe across his back before he vanished into the midnight marsh.

For what felt like the tenth time that day, she raised her fist, and bent the laws of nature to her will. 

*****

“Ma’am.” General Norris snapped to attention at the head of the war table. “The Guard reported wolf-riders, what—”

“Reinforcements have arrived.” She pulled up a chair without touching it, and sat heavily. “Or… _more_ reinforcements, anyway.” 

A dozen eyes took in the blood on her robes and Pained’s armor. 

“We are fine. I will explain when the city is no longer besieged.” 

“Of course. The mess in the bay, did the Horde—” 

“I don’t think so. Their emissary professed no knowledge of it, and commandeering two galleons without alerting the other three? When have you known the Horde to fight with that sort of stealth?” She gestured with some emphasis. “Or seen an orc even look at a gun like its not an affront to their honor?” 

A dozen hardened veterans suddenly looked concerned for her.

“I don’t know who’s helping us in the bay,” she told them, forcing her voice cold and even. “But if any of those soldiers attempt a landing, they’ll have two hundred warriors of the Horde to contend with.” 

General Norris leaned forward, resting his palms on the table, such that the light of the wrought iron chandelier cast long shadows on his face. “Those warriors better move quick. The ship that turned on the others is all but sunk, and one that burned took most of its crew with it, but two are launching rowboats as fast as they can while the last fends off the ambusher.” 

Jaina swallowed dryly. 

Hundreds already dead. All because she—

No. No time for that. 

“How many cannons are we about to be hit with?” She asked. 

“Too many.” The General nodded to the others around the room. “We’re preparing to repel them from the bridges and docks.” 

Another voice joined the conversation: 

“That will all be unnecessary.” 

Jaina turned to look at the door— and found Guardsmen filing in, faces grim and angry, led by… 

“Lieutenant Greyshield?” She asked. “What’s the meaning of this?” 

“No meaning,” he said. “Only necessity.” 

Pained, who had only looked over her shoulder, turned to face him. 

“Lady Proudmoore,” he said, pronouncing _Lady_ as if it offended him, “Earlier this night, you were contact by agents of Stormwind, were you not?” 

“I was _attacked.”_

“And after thwarting that attack, you received a missive from their King, did you not?”

Damn. “I did.” 

“I and my fellows,” Greyshield nodded to the angry men at his sides, “Would like to know the contents of that missive.” 

Anger flared hot in Jaina’s chest. 

_Morse._

“Lieutenant, we are facing a _siege,”_ said General Norris. “Stand down this instant, and return to your post at once.” 

“With all due respect, sir— there will _be_ no siege if the Lady Proudmoore acts in Theramore’s best interests.”

Norris looked exasperated. “What is that supposed to mean?” 

“What the Lieutenant is trying to compel me into shamedly admitting,” said Jaina, regarding the traitor with disdain, “Is that the High King has branded us all traitors and banished Theramore from the Alliance.” 

You could have heard a pin drop. 

“The assassins who breached my chambers —the one Pained left alive, that is— relayed a threat: either I surrender, or they invade the city. This was, of course, before someone blew up two of their ships.”

“Someone,” Greyshield growled. “Not _us.”_

“Can you guarantee that the invaders _know_ that?”

Greyshield glared, wordless. He’d obviously expected this to go differently.

“Really, Lieutenant,” Jaina gave an icy smile, “If your intention was to cow me, you should have come _before_ I won a shouting match with the High Overlord of the Horde.”

They didn’t need to know she’d won on a technicality. 

“You see?” Greyshield turned to his companions. “She brings the savages upon us yet again! She brings _all_ of this upon us! We need only—”

Pained threw a chair at him. 

Wood cracked against flesh and metal. Greyshield fell back with blood gushing from his nose, the other mutineers struggling to catch him. 

Swords rasped out of scabbards, chair-legs screeched over stone, and Jaina summoned six razor-sharp icicles into the air around her. 

For a moment no one moved — dozens of eyes mapping the room, assessing opponents. 

Jaina found herself staring at Pained, mildly shocked. 

The elf shrugged. “He was wasting your time, My Lady.” 

“Yes, but you didn’t have to—“

“Get off me!” Greyshield leapt to his feet, murder in his eyes. “And _get her!”_

The room erupted into chaos. 

Steel rang against steel, chairs flew, icicles _crunched_ through armor, and Pained became a whirlwind of blades, boots and fists. 

Blood spattered across stone and hardwood. 

The keep shuddered around them. 

Jaina froze, eyes wide—

“Stop!” She cried. “Everyone stop!”

No one did. 

“They’re firing on the city, you fools! It’s too late to surrender!”

“No!” Greyshield drove his sword through a captain of the Guard. “We can still buy their mercy! We need only—”

**_BOOM_ **

Somewhere above them, a portion of the keep came apart, shaking the chandelier, the walls— 

_“I said_ ** _STOP!”_** Jaina raised her staff aloft, and let all the anger and adrenaline _rush_ out of her in a burst of frosty shrapnel that threw the mutineers back, sent them _clanging_ into the walls or onto the floor, and pinned them there with thick crusts of ice.

Pained stalked over to where Greyshield was pinned against the wall, and pressed a dagger to his throat. 

“Where is Morse.” 

“By now?” He sneered at her, and then at Jaina. “I suspect he’ll be welcoming the rest of his _diplomats_ into the city.”

Jaina froze. 

Oh no. 

No no no--

“My Lady.” Pained looked over her shoulder back at Jaina, softness stealing into her expression despite the blade she still held to Greyshield’s throat. “If we lock them up, and loose the keep…” 

They would know far too much, Jaina realized. About the chain of command, about her temperament as a leader, her strengths and weaknesses-- 

This was an emergency. Wartime. She would be within her rights to execute them all, right here and now. 

The thought made her blood run hot and cold at once, the urge to _punish_ them warring with the part of her that recoiled from the blood already splattered around her, the memory of the light fading from her father’s eyes-- 

“No,” she choked out. “I-- they have a right to a fair trial, I won’t--” 

And then she paused. 

For from far away, through some unseen window and down the hall outside, came the sound of a war-horn. 

Jaina almost collapsed in relief. Pained must have seen it, for she was at Jaina’s side in an instant, one hand steading her staff, the other on the small of her back. 

Thrall had come. 

Any soldiers landing would be in disarray. And if half of Thrall’s warriors were anything like Saurfang, that front was secure. 

The cannons, however… 

Jaina glanced around at the mutineers. “Vimes.”

“Ma’am?” 

“Get these men into cells. Triple guard.” 

He set to it with a swiftness, half the loyalists in the room following. 

Jaina looked up at Pained… and found her face no longer tight with discomfort. 

A sigh left her unbidden. 

Pained’s batlike ears twitched, and angled cutely. “My Lady?”

“Hold on tight.”

She did. 

This teleportation took a toll. As the spell faded around them, Jaina’s head swam, and she would have stumbled if Pained had not looped an arm around her waist and held her up. 

Lightning flashed to her right, and an instant later thunder clapped over the battlement on which she stood. 

The Horde had reached the beaches, red-plated warriors rushing out of the mangroves toward the clusters of silver and blue that scrambled out of the rowboats. 

Lightning snapped down out of the fog, flashed through suits of armor-- 

_“Lok’tar ogar!!”_

Jaina turned to the city -- and her heart clenched at the sight. 

The seaward side was half-demolished. One of the towers had fallen, and taken a great portion of the wall with it, scattering its stones across the road. The cannonfire had ceased… but only because it had done its part. Dozens of Alliance soldiers had landed in the harbor, and now charged through the breach, clashing with the City Guard. Swords and armor glinted in the firelight of burning buildings. 

She leaned heavily on her staff. 

It was all falling apart again. 

_“Kagh!”_

The shout drew her eye down to the street below. 

Seven Stormwind footmen and two knights lay bleeding in the dirt, presumably put there by the tall orcish woman standing over them, holding a sword almost as long as she was tall and snarling at what must have been at least ten more… all while a group of Theramore citizens cowered behind her. 

Another knight sidestepped, and she followed, muscles bulging as she hefted the sword into a fighting stance. 

The other soldiers hung back, gripping their weapons nervously. 

It bought enough time for three more orcs to leap from the nearest roof into the middle of the formation. 

Steel plates crunched beneath axe and hammer -- and with a guttural roar, the swordswoman cleaved the head from a pikeman and let the momentum swing her around to face the civilians.

“Go!” She shouted in Common. “To the inn!” 

Hope bloomed in Jaina, lifting the exhaustion and panic from her limbs… and with it came determination. 

Without waiting for Pained to grab on, she bent the smoky air around her, and in a gut-wrenching instant was on the street, falling to her knees as her spacial distortion wreaked havoc on her equilibrium. 

“Lady Proudmoore!” One of the civilians gaped down at her, eyes wide with fear, clutching a shrieking, swaddled infant to her chest. 

“My staff—” She swayed to her feet, held it out. “Take hold!”

“There!” A man shouted. 

She looked, but her mind was still reeling, and the night was too dark, the fires too bright, and there was so much movement, metal shining— 

“That’s the bitch who started all this!” 

Several knights broke off from the skirmish, blood-smeared blades flashing—

“Quickly!” She cried. 

“Don’t let her get away!” 

_“Nel khogora!”_ One of the orcs shoulder-checked a fully armored soldier off his feet and hurled his axe into a pursuing knight. _“Hra ragrak thukarosh!”_

He got a halberd in the back for his troubles. The blood spilling from his mouth didn’t stop him from roaring, and turning to seize the attacker by his neck. 

_“Goz!!”_ The swordswoman’s voice was anguished, enraged. She pulled her blade from a vanquished enemy and charged, roaring— 

The last civilian grasped Jaina’s staff. She grit her teeth, and forced the universe to bend around her once again. 

It bent back, hard. 

She felt her knees strike hardwood, heard panicked human voices around her, saw the warm glow of the inn’s chandeliers—

Her last waking thought was of relief.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What even is pacing?
> 
> I’m just making up orcish as I go here, using what’s on the wowwiki page as a base & randomly mashing up Spanish & Arabic grammar. 
> 
> “Ak’gaz! Khas!” -- Back to camp! Fly!  
> "Nel khogora!" -- Honorless beasts!  
> "Hra ragrak thukarush!" Turn and die like warriors!  
> "Goz" was just that dude’s name. RIP Goz. 
> 
> Thrall will show up in the next chapter!


	3. Lok'tar

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The aftermath, part 1.

Jaina woke with a throbbing headache. Her first conscious action was to whimper. 

Something stirred next to her, and her eyes snapped open, hand reaching blindly for her staff-- 

_Thud._

“My Lady.” 

Pained’s voice was a bit choked. 

She stood at Jaina’s bedside, holding the staff in one hand and rubbing the side of her head with another. It must’ve… 

“Sorry,” Jaina rasped. 

Pained’s only response was to press a mug of water into her hands. Then she sat back down in an old chair pushed up against the wall, facing the door -- and Jaina realized this wasn’t her room. 

“Where…?” 

Pained gave her a look that very clearly said _drink it._

Jaina obeyed. 

As usual, it was only once she’d drained it that Pained spoke: 

“The inn. You brought a group of civilians here, and passed out.” 

“What--” Jaina sat up further, and immediately regretted it. Her head swam and throbbed, and she nearly spilled all over herself. “How long ago?” 

“The better part of a day, My Lady.” 

She stared -- then glanced down at her hands, free of any cuffs, the room around her, unburnt-- 

“Then… we won?” 

Pained smiled softly. “The invaders have scattered into the marsh, pursued by the Horde. Theramore is safe.” 

All the breath left Jaina’s body in a single shaky breath. She slumped back into the pillows. But it did not take long for her thoughts to quicken and darken once again. 

“How…” She swallowed dryly. “How many did we lose?” 

Pained seemed to weigh her words, then: “I don’t know. I asked the officers not to disturb us until you were rested and ready.” 

“You…?” Jaina sighed. She was too tired to be angry. “That was probably wise.”

She looked her bodyguard up and down… and her heart squeezed with guilt.

Pained had changed out of her bloodstained leathers, and must have washed the blood from her hair as well, but both her right bicep and left thigh were bandaged, and one cheek was scraped. 

None of those wounds had been there before Jaina _ditched_ her. 

“Pained--” Jaina’s eyes burned. “I’m so sorry.”

“Don’t be.” The elf smiled softly. “You saved those people’s lives. _But_ if even one of those soldiers had a ranged weapon, you could easily have lost your own.”

“I… I didn’t think about that, I just--”

“I know, My Lady.” Pained crossed her arms. “Just take me with you, next time.”

“Of course.” Jaina returned the smile as best she could. It didn’t last -- not with the image of the cannon-ravaged walls, the burning buildings, blood in the streets-- 

She sat up and swung her legs over the side of the bed. “I need to--”

“Rest. You need to rest.”

“I need to _lead,_ Pained. The city must be in complete disarray -- people would need reassuring even _without_ the Horde everywhere. General Norris will surely be managing the cleanup and Doctor Vanhowzen the triage, but that’s not _enough,_ they’re--”

“None of them are you.” The slightest crease had formed between Pained’s brows. 

“...No. They're not.” 

Pained sighed. “Very well. But your first stop will be the healer’s ward.” 

“I’m fine. Just tired.” 

“You teleported nine times in less than a day and then passed out.” 

“Well-- I didn’t exactly have time to walk! And it’s nothing, just a headache.” 

Pained just raised an eyebrow. 

“...maybe some dizziness too.” 

“Mmhmm.” 

Jaina slumped back, feeling scolded, and sipped her water. “Fine.” 

*****

It was a mess. 

They had driven back the invaders and put out the fires, but the city was scarred. There were chunks missing from both her tower and the walls around it, leaving shattered stone and blackened beams strewn all around. 

The row of blockish, three-story wooden buildings where over half the population slept were scorched, the roofs half-eaten by flame. 

Down the road beyond them, the keep sagged beneath the weight of what remained of the northern tower. Stones Jaina doubted she could lift without magic littered the ground, some in small craters, others at the end of long furrows. One had even smashed the chimney off the inn behind her. 

Thank the Tides they’d decides to set up the healer’s ward _behind_ the keep. The cluster of shacks and tents was unharmed… just overflowing. Guardsmen sat on benches and crates and pieces of rubble all around, most hastily bandaged or salves, awaiting more comprehensive care. As she approached, Jaina passed a group of pale, wide-eyed civilians, their wounds properly dressed, being escorted back to the inn by uninjured soldiers. 

“Milady!” One of the soldiers peeled off and snapped to attention. “Are you injured, Ma’am?” 

“No, I just--”

“Lady Proudmoore is in need of a full medical examination,” said Pained. 

“...Yes.” Jaina sighed. “That.” 

“Right this way, Ma’am.” 

He led them in, weaving between shacks until they arrived at the cottage that served as both apothecary and medic’s quarters.

Jaina blinked at the sight that awaited her. 

Flanking the door stood two exhausted-looking city guards… and two towering orcish warriors, utterly still but constantly and warily surveying their surroundings. 

Jaina couldn’t blame them. She doubted they had any fond memories of the last time they were surrounded by this many humans. 

When they saw her, the human guards saluted hand-to-head, and the orcish ones fist-to chest. 

“At ease,” she said. 

If they stayed that tense, they’d make everyone around them nervous too. 

She turned to her escort. “Where is General Norris?”

He blinked at her, then clasped his hands behind his back. “Dead, Ma’am.” 

Oh. 

“What…” She trailed off, a sick feeling coiling around her stomach. She swallowed. Sorted her thoughts. This soldier wouldn’t have all the details, and that was what she needed. “Who has taken his place?”

“General Lorena, Ma’am.”

“Please inform her that I want a full report of the aftermath and recovery efforts delivered to me here. Dismissed. 

He saluted, and jogged away. 

Jaina watched him go for a moment. 

Norris, one of the most experienced veterans they had, gone. And he surely hadn’t gone alone. 

Fuck. 

Pained said nothing, and for that Jaina was grateful. She gathered the jagged edges of herself, and marched inside. 

And almost ran into Tamberlyn. 

The woman’s face was streaked with soot, her skirts with blood, and her hair was a halo of frizz around her tight expression. 

“Oh--! I’m so sorry milady, I--”

“No, the fault was mine, you--”

Both paused. 

“Is the Doctor available?” Asked Pained. 

“He was sowing up one of the greenski--” Tamberlyn’s eyes went wide. “Horde soldiers. One of the Horde soldiers. Last I checked. I’ll go see.” 

With that she turned on her heel and all but fled down the corridor, leaving Jaina grasping in vain for words. 

Her head hurt. 

The woman was _afraid_ of her reaction. Jaina wasn’t exactly thrilled that many of her people thought of the orcs in such terms -- but she wasn’t _angry._ She _understood._ The old Horde had taken her brother from her. 

It would take more than a few years to cross the rivers of blood that ran between orcs and humans… but the Horde had come to their aid yet again. 

Perhaps they were already building bridges. 

Tamberlyn bustled back out into the hallway, carrying a bundle of bloodstained rags -- and studiously avoiding Jaina’s gaze. 

“The Doc ken see ye now, milady.”

Jaina wished she had the words to untangle this. Instead, she simply said: “Thank you, Tamberlyn.” 

The medic nodded demurely, and disappeared up the stairs. 

Jaina crossed to the door of the surgical salon —Doc Vanhowzen’s unofficial office and the only room big enough to comfortably accommodate an orcish warrior— and knocked softly on the door. 

“Come in!”

It swung open with a squeak beneath Jaina’s touch— and she stopped in her tracks. 

On a crate near the far wall, bare from the waist up, sat the swordswoman from the street.

Her heavy metal pauldrons and breastplate lay at her feet, along with what looked like the orcish version of a claymore… and atop them were the ragged, bloodied remains of her shirt and chest-wrap. 

Behind her, a medic worked with needle and thread, suturing some deep wound on her back. She flinched as he tugged. 

A voice in the back of Jaina’s mind whispered something about cultural relativism and the forced immodesty of a soldier’s life. 

But the front of her mind was rather preoccupied. 

She hadn’t really spent much time around orcish women. The swordswoman was less… _mountainous_ than the men of her kind, but what she lacked in sheer brawn, she made up for in curves. 

She sat straight and tall despite the obvious pain she was in, as if her _considerable_ breasts weren’t bared to anyone who might walk in. Wide, dark green nipples rose and fell with each breath. Her thickly muscled torso was tensed, strength plain even through the superficial softness of her belly, the swell of her hips, and the numerous bandages—

She twitched, and Jaina’s attention snapped to her face —cheekbones high and wide, eyes squeezed shut, bushy brows furrowed and flat nose scrunching in pain—

“Ah, Lady Proudmoore!” Said Doctor Vanhowzen. 

The swordswoman’s eyes snapped open, and found Jaina. She stood. 

“What—!” The medic behind her squawked, fumbling with his needle and thread. “Are you _serious—”_

“Lok’tar!” She slammed a fist to her upper chest with a deep and resounding _thump._

If Jaina glimpsed the resulting jiggle, it was _**only** _out of the corner of her eye. 

_Lok’tar._

_Victory._

“In no small part thanks to you and your fellows,” She said, impressed at the calm in her voice. “At ease, soldier.” 

The swordswoman sat, once again gripping the metal of her thigh-guards and bracing for pain, such that her thick biceps and broad shoulders flexed solid. 

Jaina’s gaze flicked to the medic, who looked back with a fist pressed over his mouth and look of harried gratitude in his eyes. 

Then she turned to Doctor Vanhowzen, who sat in a chair beside the empty cot in the corner. He looked her over quickly, the bags under his eyes deep as the bay. “Good t’see you on your feet, Milady. What can I do for you?” 

“I…” She gathered her thoughts out of the arcane fog in her head. “I seem to have over-exerted myself rather seriously.”

“Yes, you’ve been flashing all over the place, haven’t you? ‘Course I’m no wizard, but let’s have a look at you.” 

She made a mental note to consult with Tervosh, if need be. 

_Fuck_ she hoped Tervosh was alive. 

Very much _not_ looking at all the smooth green skin before her, Jaina crossed to the cot and sat. 

Pained leaned against the wall beside her, arms crossed, facing the door.

The Doctor pressed his stethoscope to her back, then front, before turning to rummage through his desk. “I know _exactly_ what we need…” 

Unfortunately, the cot gave Jaina a clear view of the swordswoman’s fierce profile. 

The sides of her head were shaved bare, but on top her hair grew long and thick, woven into a half-dozen braids that cascaded down the back of her head, where they were gathered by threading them through what _looked_ like something’s vertebra and then pulled forward over her brawny shoulder to keep it out of the medic’s way. 

Behind her, he began another suture, and the woman’s jaw clenched, strong and scarred by what must have been the end of a whip. Another, and she involuntarily hissed, drawing Jaina’s attention to the tusks that curved up out of her full lips. They were maybe half the size of Thrall’s… but still _far_ from small. 

If she were human, Jaina might try to strike up a conversation to distract her from the pain. But she wasn’t human. And she was… rather intimidating. 

“ _There_ you are,” Said the Doctor, and from his desk produced an instrument not unlike his stethoscope, save for the array of crystal lenses blooming from its head like the wings of some exotic insect. “Ysuria’s contribution to our toolbox. I can’t rightly pronounce its name and I’m not going to try, _but--_ ” --He bustled forward to stand in front of her and began fiddling with a dial on the head-- “It detects magical energies within the body. Been a great help with the poor girl’s condition.” 

Jaina frowned for three reasons. 

First: that ‘poor girl’ had several centuries on him.

Second: the tool was very clearly an arcane spectrometer configured for medical use.

Third: it was also the _wrong_ tool for the job. 

But Jaina was very tired, and more than a little bit dizzy, and the orc sitting in front of her had been wounded in defense of Theramore. Ready to _die_ in defense of Theramore. There was a diplomatic opportunity here, she just had to plot it out… 

“Now I’ve never used this on a human before,” Said the Doctor, “But it _should_ be fairly-- hold on, let me--” He puttered over to his desk again. “Know I had her notes here somewhere…”

Jaina’s gaze strayed back to the swordswoman -- and she forced it away again, from the orc to her armor, which was… hm. 

It had chains wrapped over it, adding an extra layer of metal to the kodo-leather base, and those chains connected the pieces, vambrace to pauldron to breastplate. 

She’d _seen_ this armor before. 

Yes -- last time the sword had been human-made, and her hair had been different, but the chains were unmistakeable. 

“You fought at Hyjal, didn't you?" 

The swordswoman turned her head only slightly, so as not to disrupt the medic’s work again. Hazel eyes rendered catlike by kohl met Jaina’s own, wary and searching. 

It was not the gaze of someone who trusted humans. 

“Yes,” She offered, and no more.

A different voice, deep and strong as mountains, answered Jaina’s unspoken questions. 

“Ngashk is a captain of my honor guard.” 

Jaina turned -- and a smile spread unbidden across her face. 

A few feet away, Ngashk leapt to her feet and saluted again, much to the annoyance of the man trying to sew her wounds shut. 

Thrall filled the doorway with his bulk, the light through the windows gleaming on the bronze edges of his armor and the new scratches in the black paint of its wide, heavy plates. The Doomhammer hung at his hip, and from it Jaina could feel a faint pressure in the air, as if before a storm. 

His thick braids, longer and more lustrous than when she’d seen him last, swayed and bounced over his chest, and though his expression was serious, his blue eyes were bright. 

“She is also a hero of Durnholde,” He nodded to Ngashk, “And one of the last true Blademasters.” 

Jaina’s heart swelled. 

He’d sent his best to protect Theramore. 

“Throm’ka,” She said, voice warm. “Warchief.” 

He smiled back, lips pulling tight across his prominent tusks, and… was that a tusk ring? It suited him. 

“Throm’ka, my friend.” He looked her up and down, searching for any injury. “Are you well?”

“Teleported too much. I’ll be fine in a day or so.” 

A weight seemed to lift from his shoulders, and his expression lightened. Then he turned back to Ngashk -- who was still standing. 

“Lok’regár,” She rumbled. 

Thrall inspected her as well, ignoring her impressive bust in favor of the numerous bandages (and the exasperated medic behind her), and said in a tone that brooked no argument: “Regárong _hárag.”_

The swordswoman sat back down, looking ever-so-slightly put out -- and leaving Jaina wondering. 

_Regar_ being ‘orders’, with _-ong_ making it ‘your orders’, but… _harag?_ If that was related to the _harg_ in _Kosh’harg…_ but Kosh’harg was a _festival,_ so what--?

“Lady Proudmoore,” Said Thrall, “Are you well enough to walk with me? We have much to discuss.” 

Jaina glanced over at the Doctor, who was still fiddling with the handheld spectrometer. 

She’d have a word about that with him later. 

“Lead the way,” She said, and stood. 

*****

“Just out of curiosity,” Thrall said, strolling to avoid outpacing her, “What exactly did you do to _hit it off_ with Saurfang? I have literally met rocks friendlier than that man.”

“Hit it off?” She frowned. “I _yelled_ at him. And… well. I may have bared my teeth, a bit? And spoke _horrible_ orcish.” 

Thrall chuckled deep in his broad chest. “He said you got the words right. Just not the accent.” 

“...What else did he say?” 

“That this was retaliation. For the Grand Admiral.”

“For my father, Thrall. You can say it.”

He looked down at her, worried. “So… they came to capture you, and came in force to regain a foothold in Kalimdor?”

Jaina sighed. “They…”

“Lady Proudmoore!” 

Both turned, looking back the way they’d come— and Jaina internally cringed at her own forgetfulness, magic-addled though it may have been. 

The man she’d sent to now-General Lorena came jogging down the road toward them, a rolled-up parchment in one hand. 

“Hold that thought,” She told Thrall. 

“Of course.” 

Every time she heard his voice, it took adjusting to. No human man spoke with that pure bass resonance. On Hyjal, she had felt his battle-cries in her chest. 

The messenger staggered to a stop before her, and presented the parchment with a bow. 

The urge to apologize stalled on Jaina’s tongue. This man didn’t need to know she’d forgotten about him, and Theramore needed her focused and strong. 

“Thank you.” She leaned her staff against the crook of her neck, and took the report. “You may tell your superiors that I have ordered you to rest.” 

“Thank you, Milady.” With another bow, he was off. 

Jaina unrolled the parchment… and her heart sank. 

_Twenty-seven dead_

_Five civilians_

_Greyshield and other defectors unaccounted for, believed to have fled into marsh_

_Norris murdered without a fight -- Captain Darill chief suspect, also missing_

Thrall, mercifully, gave her space, and busied himself surveying their surroundings while she re-read the report again and again. 

_First floor of Lady Proudmoore’s tower serving as council chambers while the keep undergoes repairs._

Alright.

She had a heading. 

“I need to meet with my people,” She said. 

“And I with mine. With your permission, I will send what healers I can spare to assist your own. And other, to help clear rubble.”

“That would be amazing, but… that’s not entirely my decision, right now.” 

“Right. I’ll leave some messengers by the gates then. Tell your people I could send only Tauren, if it would help. They’ll be the most willing, anyway.”

Jaina looked up at him, fighting back tears. _Twice_ now, he’d saved Theramore. Saved her. 

“Thrall… _Warchief_. What can we do to repay you?”

He scratched his beard, and fiddled absent-mindedly with his tusk ring. 

How could such a titan of a man be _cute?_

“Holding Theramore to a debt would only sour relations.” 

“You know what I mean. There has to be _something_.” 

Thrall rolled one of his armor-laden shoulders uncomfortably. “Perhaps… we might build upon our treaty.”

Jaina considered that. Theramore already traded everything it had to trade, and now they had _fewer_ than one hundred soldiers to the Horde’s thousands. “What are you suggesting?”

“Vol’jin and I have discussed the fever from which your people suffer.”

“Yes, trade with the Darkspear has saved dozens of lives here already.” 

“And they want to save more. A few even wish to lend their aid in person, and Cairne has said that if they did, he would send Tauren emissaries with them.”

“...you want to establish an embassy?”

Thrall frowned. “Embassy?”

Jaina silently chided herself. Thrall spoke Common so naturally, it was easy to forget how unconventional his education had been. “It’s um— a place of diplomacy, established by one group in the land of another, to improve relations.” 

“Embassy,” He repeated. “And this would be… reciprocal?” 

“Yes.”

“Then yes. I wish for us to exchange embassies.” 

That gave her pause… and made her queasy. It was one thing to let orcs and trolls into the city in their hour of need… but long-term cohabitation? How many more Gavis Greyshields would that create? 

“I only ask for you to give it thought,” Said Thrall. He seemed to consider for a moment, then: “It was only via the farseers I posted in the Marsh after… the last time, that I was able to come so quickly. Saurfang would have me post an entire garrison here.”

“Yes.” Jaina’s mood darkened. “He was prepared to see the city demolished, rather than let it fall into Alliance hands.”

Thrall stopped mid-stride. “... _Alliance_ hands?” 

Her eyes fell shut. 

Damn it. 

She hadn’t even told her own people yet. 

“Jaina... what happened?” 

She turned, and looked up at him. Studied the concern etched into his rugged features, the way his eyes all but glowed in the afternoon light… 

“Give me your word you will tell no one until I wish it.” 

“You have my word.” No hesitation. 

Jaina braced herself on here staff. “King Wrynn has branded me a traitor, along with all my officers and advisors. Theramore…” She took a deep breath. “Theramore is no longer part of the Alliance.” 

For a breathless moment, Thrall simply stared at her. His thick brows furrowed deeper, and his lips pursed in a way that drew her attention to his tusks, and the effect they had on his express--

“Join the Horde.” 

_“...What?”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tiddy.
> 
> The 'Ng' in 'Ngashk' is soft, like in the word "sing." 
> 
> Blizz is actually unclear on Thrall's age. He was born somewhere between 3 BDP and 1 ADP; for this fic it'll be 0 ADP (I like the movie scene of the Portal's energies causing him to be stillborn & revived by Gul'dan, very drama). So he's 23 here.
> 
> "Lok'tar" -- Victory. Used as an encouragement during battle, or as a greeting afterwards.  
> "Throm'ka" -- Well met. A warm greeting.  
> "Lok'regár" -- Ready for orders.  
> "Regárong hárag" -- Your orders are to rest. (Lit: Orders-yours to rest)  
> Blizz has translated the "Kosh" in Kosh'harg (https://wow.gamepedia.com/Kosh%27harg) to mean 'axe,' so I've decided the full literal translation is 'Axe-rest' -- making "harg" the noun form of "rest." So "hárag" is the infinitive verb form. The imperative would be "hrag."  
> Since Orcish seems to have fairly limited phonology, it makes sense to get more meanings out of the same few consonants by shifting the vowels around.


	4. Rúnaz-nukh

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The aftermath, part 2. 
> 
> Jaina does her best. Pained helps. Thrall gives her a gift.

_Join the Horde_.

Jaina stood on the steps of her tower, atop the small hill from which it rose.

Before her, the people of Theramore filled the streets. Thousands of humans, hundreds of dwarves and gnomes, and dozens of high elves, all looked up at her haggard and frightened. 

_Why,_ they had asked. _Why has the Alliance turned on us?_

And she had told them. 

For a moment, all was quiet save for the calling of the gulls. 

But only for a moment. 

Then someone cried out, and the floodgates were open. Shock, confusion, and anger rent the air, and Jaina fought the urge to shrink away, to retreat into her tower-- 

_“How can this be?”_

_“But it wasn’t our fault!”_

_“Why??”_

_“What do we do now??”_

_Join the Horde,_ he’d said. 

_“You brought this on us!”_

A dozen voices echoed that, and Jaina’s heart clenched in her chest. But her guards stood fast, ready to defend her without displaying any hostility toward the people. 

_Not immediately,_ he’d said, quickly, almost anxiously. _We can build up to it -- embassies first, to get our people accustomed to each other…_

Marooned on an uncharted continent, without allies. That was the fear that now rippled through the crowd -- and thus far, Thrall was the only one with a solution. 

However far-fetched that solution was. 

With a twist of her hand, Jaina bent the air to magnify her voice.

**_“Fear not!”_ **

Multiple people flinched, and her heart went out to them, but she needed to rein this in. 

**_“I hear your fears and your concerns,”_ ** She shouted, **_“And if it is the will of the people that I resign as your leader, then it will be so!”_ **

The cries of protest and reassurance were not unanimous, but they were immediate -- and lent her strength. 

**_“For it was I who aided the Horde in defeating the Grand Admiral, it was I who called upon them for aid against this invasion, and it was I who invited the Tauren that now aid our healers and laborers!”_ **

Murmurs, mixed feelings-- 

**_“If you find this unacceptable, I bid you make it known! The city council has assembled in the inn, and will hear your grievances!”_ **

No shouts, this time. 

Jaina’s throat hurt already.

**_“I also have a message from Warchief Thrall, who repelled the invaders from our beaches and sent his most elite warriors to defend us from those that breached the city!”_ **

That garnered some confusion, some anger, but she pressed on--

 **_“Many of you fought beside the Horde to repel the demons who enslaved his people -- the same demons responsible for the Scourge that drove us here!”_ ** She took a deep breath, wishing for water -- or better yet, honeyed tea. **_“Many of you stood aside so that the Horde could thwart my father’s genocidal agenda! The other peoples of this land, be they orc, troll, or tauren, have NOT forgotten this -- and their Warchief would have you know that we are NOT alone!”_ **

As those words echoed through the city, Thrall’s words echoed through her mind. 

_The Alliance will come again. Perhaps in one year, perhaps in ten, but they_ **_will_ ** _come -- and when they do, neither Theramore nor Orgrimmar will be able to stand alone._

**_“This new Horde only arrived in time to make a difference thanks to the few mages among them -- and even so, were only able to bring two hundred of their warriors. And so the Warchief has proposed an addition to our treaty of non-aggression: if I and my fellow mages will share our knowledge of the Arcane, the Horde will protect Theramore from all threats which we cannot defeat by ourselves.”_ **

Several people cried out in anger, stricken by the idea of orcs camping around the city. 

**_“I told him I would CONSIDER this on ONE CONDITION! It is a journey of weeks between here and Orgrimmar -- in emergencies, portal travel is the only viable option. So I and my fellows will cast wards and protections over Dustwallow, such that portal travel in and out of the marsh will be IMPOSSIBLE without our direct participation.”_ **

After that she paused, breathing heavily. 

It had the desired effect. The most vocal protesters quieted, considering. Even if they now distrusted Jaina, there was also Tervosh, Alder, Lissah, the mages of the Guard… and Ysuria. Hopefully. 

Some of the people had clearly already seen the Tauren working to clear rubble and heal the wounded. 

Overall the crowd seemed agitated, afraid… but much calmer than she’d expected. And as long as they weren’t lighting torches and gathering pitchforks, this was a victory. 

_Lok’tar._

**_“For the moment,”_ ** She announced, **_“The Horde is camped in the Marsh. Other than the Warchief, his advisors, and those in need of medical attention, no orc or troll will enter the city unless the City Council permits it.”_ **

The agitation waned even further. 

**_“The other decision before the Council, and thus before all of you, is that of whether Theramore will establish an embassy in Orgrimmar… and Orgrimmar an embassy here.”_ **

Another wave of murmurs, people turning to each other to confer, an isolated few shouting in protest…

Jaina wondered how much of their reservedness was pure exhaustion. 

She’d meant what she’d said -- if they could no longer stand to be ruled by her, she would resign. But with no guarantee her successor would prioritize diplomacy as she had… she feared for Theramore’s future. 

She cleared her throat, wincing. **_“We have already cooperated and coexisted with the Horde in times of need. We have come to their aid, and they to ours. If we are to live in safety and peace, I submit to you now that we must continue to build bridges over the rivers of blood that have run between us. Yes, the Alliance has turned against us -- but we need NOT brave the future alone!”_ **

They _could not_ brave the future alone. Not if they wanted to survive it. 

With that she fell silent, and tried not to lean too obviously on her staff. She may as well have teleported another five times, for how much the speech took out of her. 

_You lack the troops,_ Thrall had said… _and we lack the ships._

She had stood there, looking up at him, working out the reasoning behind his proposal almost as quickly as he explained it.

_You told me once of your childhood in Kul Tiras. Of your fascination with the form and function of its navy._

_You fought with us against the demons. You fought with us against your own father -- and for it you have been unjustly punished._

_I will do my best to protect Theramore no matter what… but it would be much easier with a navy of our own._

_It will be easier_ **_together._ **

And as the truth of that blew through her mind like a squall, all she could say was: _Thrall… how long have you been thinking about this?_

_Ever since I received your letter, yesterday._ He’d fiddled with his tusk ring again, a glimpse of youthful uncertainty so at odds with his sheer physical presence… it left an odd feeling in her chest.

_I… I feared the worst, and planned around it. If Theramore was to fall, Ngashk and her pack would have retrieved you. Or tried to, at least._

That feeling had then resolved into warmth. They were both so young to be where they were, to be _who_ they were… did it ever wash over him? Threaten to drag him under? His letters certainly hinted at great stress, but… 

“My Lady,” Said Pained.

“I should rest,” Said Jaina. “I know.” 

It came out colder than intended. She gave her bodyguard a smile for good measure, and retreated into her tower. 

*****

It wasn’t that she didn’t _want_ to rest. Her body ached from constant sitting, walking, and casting. The dizziness still came and went. She’d even made herself hoarse. 

Did Thrall ever make himself hoarse? What little she’d seen of orcish leadership was very vocal, but that _was_ in battle… 

Before her a key rasped into a lock, and the guard holding it swung open the wrought-iron door to the stockades. 

Pained went first this time, and Jaina followed, thankful that the basement of the keep was solid stone. There was no sign whatsoever of the tower currently crushing the upper levels. 

The prisoners, stripped of their weapons and armor, sat or stood in dirtied Stormwind blues and Kul Tiras greens, two or three to a cell. Some glared at Jaina while she passed, their eyes bloodshot and furious. Others rattled the bars and spat. She did her best to ignore the things they said. 

Thirty total, she remembered. 

At the end of the hall was door of heavy oak, flanked by guards who snapped to attention as she approached, and opened it for her. 

Within was a single cell, and within that a single soldier, his wrists shackled and his leg bandaged. He looked up at her from under a swollen brow, the bruising only just barely visible through the dark of his skin. He couldn’t have been much older than her -- just the right age to have been a child when the Horde drove so many like him out of Redridge. 

The door shut behind her. The lock rasped shut. Only the slightest scuff of boots on stone signaled Pained’s presence behind her. 

She regarded the man as coolly as she could for a moment. 

Then she realized the extent to which she was channelling her mother, and an ache stabbed through her chest. 

“Well?” The man tipped his head back to rest against the dank stone of his cell, bitter gaze flicking between her and Pained. “Get on wif’ it.” 

With a silent incantation, Jaina reached out the the Arcane buzzing unseen around them, and seized it between her thumb and middle finger. A careful twist was all it took to unlock the cuffs around the man’s wrists. 

“Captain Delowe,” She said, “I’m told you’ve not been very cooperative.” 

He spat blood onto the floor. “Woulda thought a bunch’uv orc-lovers’d be better at forcin’ fings outta people.” 

“A bunch of ‘orc-lovers’ would have considered live capture dishonorable and slain you all without a second thought. Would you have preferred that?” 

“I’m not tellin’ you shite.” 

“You haven’t even heard your options, yet.” 

He glowered. 

“They are three. First, you and your men can tell us what you know of the Alliance’s plans for Kalimdor, and be given a ship with which to return home. Second, you can tell us nothing, be put to work rebuilding what you have destroyed, and be given a ship once that is done. Third, you can tell us nothing, refuse to rebuild what you have destroyed, and instead be put on trial and punished in accordance with the wishes of those you have harmed. As of this moment, I honestly don’t know how merciful they will be.”

With that she turned on her heel and left. 

Her hands were shaking.

She could feel Pained’s eyes on her, as she marched back up the stairs. 

“What?”

“Just a mild bout of culture shock, My Lady.” 

“...Oh? And how would the High Priestess have handled that?”

“She wouldn’t have. Their fate would be entirely up to the families of those they injured and killed.” 

Jaina contemplated her answer for a few steps. “Their fate _will_ be up to those families.” 

Pained followed silently for a moment. 

Then: “Not sure when I last saw you lie, My Lady.” 

“Yes, well. Just repaying them in kind.”

She could feel Pained worrying about her, too. But she never really _stopped_ worrying about Jaina, did she?

*****

Six hours since she woke. Twenty-seven dead, five of them civilians. One of them her most experienced general. Seventeen defectors, among them multiple Guard captains with intimate knowledge of Theramore’s inner workings. The keep, half-destroyed. Dozens homeless. Months until the city would be fully rebuilt. Fully secure. Hundreds of orcs camped in the marsh, making an already-frightened populace even more uneasy. 

Jaina was exhausted. But everytime she tried to grab even a moment of rest, it all bubbled up in her again -- Arthas to father to not surrendering immediately to _how can I even think that_ to _Join the Horde._

Which was how twilight found her returning to the medical ward, to check on what she hoped could be a silver lining. 

By now, dozens of citizens would have heard what Ngashk did. If they were to host an embassy, the swordswoman could make an... _encouraging_ envoy. 

Jaina abruptly realized she didn’t know how much Common Ngashk spoke. Most orcs she’d encountered understood at least a bit, having learned enough to avoid the whips and blades of internment camp guards, but none spoke it so well as Thrall. 

His letters had given her a _very_ basic grasp of Orcish… but it was difficult to teach pronunciation via parchment alone. 

She slowed her stride, assessing. 

_Hero of Durnholde,_ Thrall said. Jaina was far from an expert on the orcish aging process (if such an expert even existed) but Ngashk hadn’t _looked_ much older than Thrall. 

So she was most likely raised in that internment camp -- if not _born_ there. Of _course_ she didn’t trust-- 

_Oh._

Chains. 

Right. 

And yet she put herself between unarmed humans and dozens of blades. Was that entirely on Thrall’s orders, or…? 

The ward was calmer now, less swarmed with motion. All the most dire injuries had been seen to, the triage and surgeries done, and now was the time for rest and recovery. 

The city guards outside the main building had changed shifts. The orcs had not. Seeing the two now, Jaina was certain they were of Ngashk’s… pack? Was that what Thrall had called it? 

They wore no chains, but like Ngashk their armor was metal, rather than the personalized leather-and-bone of common Horde soldiers, and they had similar greatswords strapped to their broad backs, rather than axes or hammers or spears. 

All four guards saluted as she passed. 

“Hrag,” She told the orcs. 

“At ease,” She told the humans.

They relaxed only marginally. Jaina suspected she’d have to separate green from tan to get any more than that. And of course neither orc nor human would leave until the other did. 

Inside, the hall was lit by lanterns, one hanging above every door, and quiet save for the guttural voice emanating from the surgical salon -- and the exasperated human voice replying.

_“Don’t. Move. How hard is that to-- no! I swear to--”_

Perhaps she’d come at the right time. 

Jaina pushed open the door. 

Ngashk lay on her front on one of the cots, chest mercifully hidden, with another medic apparently trying to change her bandages. Both looked supremely frustrated -- and as Jaina watched, Ngashk seized the medic’s wrist before he could touch the gauze on her side. 

She cleared her throat. 

Instantly, Ngashk let go -- and the medic straightened up. 

“Oh! My Lady -- thank the Light! You speak Orcish, don’t you?” 

“I-- yes, though I don’t profess to be an expert.”

“Can you _please_ tell her to be still?” 

Jaina looked to the swordswoman. Either from pain or heat or both, her green skin was dewy with sweat, and the kohl around her eyes failed to conceal the bags forming. 

“Or-kish,” Ngashk muttered. “Il Úrukath?”

“Ko,” Said Jaina. _Yes._

The swordswoman breathed a sigh of relief. Then she launched into a tirade, of which Jaina only caught broken fragments. 

“ **Please** _aago shu garuk-khulu_ I need **shaman** , not this _zeru lak’garo agh_ **not what to do** if _nil thokh-ri vura.”_

Well.

Jaina opened her mouth, and closed it again.

“I… _believe_ she would prefer the services of a shaman? Would you be so kind as to--”

“Right away!” The medic all but fled the room. 

“I thank you,” Ngashk sighed. Her accent was thick as smoke, and her voice... it reminded Jaina of a good bourbon. Smooth despite that burning quality, and just a little bit rough. 

She'd removed her thigh-guards and greaves, and now wore only bandages and a loose, threadbare pair of trousers that... well. With an arse like that, she'd probably make a burlap sack look flattering. 

“You need not," Said Jaina. "Thrak máraz-og?” _How are you recovering?_

For whatever reason, the swordswoman continued in Common. “I have… suffer worse.” 

Jaina didn’t doubt it, but... 

“That does not answer my question.” 

Ngashk blinked. Her nose wrinkled a bit. 

“Il hrunákh gotho’ang,” Jaina translated. 

“I heal good.” She clicked her tongue. “I heal _well.”_

“Glad to hear it. May I ask you something?” 

Ngashk pursed her lips for a moment, perhaps considering, perhaps simply translating in her head, then said: “Dabu.”

_I obey._

Jaina summoned over one of the chairs, and sat down. 

Ngashk promptly sat up. On of the sets of bandages turned out to be breast-bindings, but… well, they only did so much. 

Jaina hadn’t been so focused on holding eye contact since Sylvanas Windrunner showed up to that royal ball with her shirt half-buttoned. 

Just like that, Jaina’s heart sank. 

The Ranger-General would have defended Quel’thalas to the last. 

She wet her lips, and forced herself to speak. 

“Rom akúwa kur golgónnashar.” _I spoke with the Warchief earlier._

She immediately realized she’d got the word order wrong, but Ngashk simply sat at attention. 

She wore a single necklace of braided leather... beaded with orcish tusks of varying sizes. 

“G’ashu regárong…” Damn. She paused. “If Theramore was to fall,” She said slowly, waiting until Ngashk nodded to continue, “Your orders were to… to get me out of here.” 

“Yes.”

“And yet I saw you risking your life to protect civilians.” 

Ngashk narrowed her eyes. 

“Innocents.” 

Tilted her head, ever so slightly. 

“Og’rukan ogar mazak ukkad.” _You risked death to protect (the) unarmed._

Ngashk looked away. Sucked the inside of her cheek. 

“Orcs and humans… when think someone less, we no better than beasts. I _know_ this. I could not do nothing.” 

“So… you disobeyed the Warchief’s orders?” 

Her eyes widened — and Jaina realized how that sounded. 

“I will not see you punished!” She blurted. “I just want to understand.” 

Ngashk eyed her warily for a moment, then: “Theramore was not yet lost.”

Jaina frowned. Every answer yielded more questions. Which to ask first? 

“Blademaster,” She ventured, “What does that mean?”

“Old tradition. Old before first Horde. Tradition of…” She scrunched her nose, frustrated, and Jaina suppressed a smile at the sight. 

“Kos... athram ralag Common goa… um’raz-og?” _Perhaps better to practice Common when recovered?_

Ngashk blinked. Then she looked Jaina up and down, a smile tugging at her lips, as if to say _You’re one to talk._

“Ek’tuk-og Urukath dun okkawog?” 

_Understand-you Orcish better (than you) speak?_

Jaina felt herself flush. “Ko.” 

Ngashk spoke slowly — allowing her to better parse the strange words and unfamiliar grammar. “ _Grak_ -you are orc, for the first time fighting humans. They smaller. Weaker. And the Fel you _khon-rau’a_ **strong**. You need no skill for them-crush. No tradition. So you begin to forget such things. Many do.” 

“Zur akh vok,” Said Jaina. _But not all._

She needed to review the grammar notes Thrall had sent her. 

“No,” Said Ngashk. “Not all.” 

Jaina attempted a warm smile. It probably just made her look even more exhausted. “Is there anything you need, here?” 

Ngashk glanced to the window, closed to keep the mosquitoes out. Then she glanced at Jaina’s staff. “Atruugh gammathar hrovuk’ong.” _I have seen the…_ something _of your ice._ “Irí ghao’eko?” _Is it a weapon only?_

“No, it’s….” Jaina’s thoughts were starting to blur together, and switching between languages wasn’t helping. “I can make it cooler in here, if you want.” 

“Please.” 

With a rush of mana and a whispered summons, a frost elemental coalesced in the air between them. No bigger than Ngashk’s (admittedly large) hand, it appeared as a haze of ice particles, gently writhing as it perceived the space around it… however it was that it perceived things. 

“Would you mind doing something about the heat?” She asked. 

It sort of billowed towards her at the words, and for a moment did nothing — but then it seemed to shrink in on itself, _condense_ itself, and then burst. 

A wave of chilled air shot out across the room, freezing the beads of sweat on Ngashk’s skin. She sighed contentedly. 

“I thank you.” 

“I saw what you did for us, Captain. Think nothing of it.” 

“I will try.” Ngashk smiled. “No promise.” 

*****

At Pained’s insistence, she returned to the room set aside for her in the inn. It would take more than removing the bodies for her tower to feel safe again. 

The bed wasn’t as nice, which she felt guilty about, but to be off her feet was _bliss._ Pained stood guard outside, her mere presence intimidating the barmaid who came up to see if Jaina needed anything. 

“Wine.” Jaina’s voice was definitely going. “Please.”

“My Lady…” Pained almost seemed exasperated. 

“And food.”

“Right away, milady.” 

Jaina levitated her staff into the corner and fell back onto the bed with a groan. Screwed her eyes shut. 

_Treason against the Alliance._

Thrall was right. They would try again… and next time, they would bring more than five ships. She hadn’t just aided in the murder of their Grand Admiral, hadn’t just denied them a foothold — she’d spat in the face of the Alliance’s core beliefs. 

_You brought this upon us!_

The Council was still hearing what the people had to say. Tides, _they’d_ probably hate her too just for making them listen to so many hundreds of grievances. 

They wouldn’t know if she was to continue as ruler of Theramore until tomorrow at the earliest. 

And even if she did… how many Gavis Greyshields were biding their time, waiting until she didn’t have Thrall here to back her up? The mutineers undoubtedly would have left sympathizers in the city. There would be thefts, propaganda… fuck. Any Horde embassy would need a security detail, which would _not_ look good. Perhaps they could build it outside the city proper… 

Which would leave it more vulnerable to Greyshield and his men. 

_Peace is like a dream,_ father once told her. _Beautiful. Ephemeral._

_Unobtainable._

“Pained.” 

“My Lady?” 

“Are you… how are you?”

“It was no Hyjal, My Lady.”

A delirious chuckle spilled from her lips. “Doesn’t answer my question…” 

“The wounds were superficial. The poison was meant only to distract. And without the World Tree…” Pained paused. “There is less of gap, between my abilities and those of humans.”

What? She’d mopped the floor with them, what did—

“It was deeply thrilling.” 

Oh. 

Hm. 

“Not sure how to feel about that,” She murmured. 

“Nor am I,” Said Pained. “But I am well.” 

_Thump._

_Thump._

_Thump._

_Thump._

That was _not_ a barmaid coming up the stairs. 

“I suggest you gather yourself, My Lady.”

What? 

“Diplomacy calls.” 

“Lok’tar, Sentinel.” 

“Warchief.” 

_Fuck._

Part of Jaina caught a second wind. Another panicked. She was _far_ too tired to meet with another head of state right now — she’d have to put it off, but… 

Wait, why had he come _now?_

She forced her eyes open, forced her abdomen to contract and her legs to push and just barely made it to her aching feet just as Thrall stepped into view, stooping to see into the room. 

In one hand he held a pitcher. In the other a plate, on it a loaf of bread and a chunk of cheese. 

He was still wearing his armor. How was he still wearing his armor? When had he last taken it off? It must’ve weighed—

“Lady Proudmoore,” He rumbled — and something cracked open in Jaina’s chest. 

Tears blurred her vision. 

_Proudmoore._

Pained stepped into sight, watching while still guarding the door… but Thrall stood and stared, clearly unsure of what or how or why, and a wave of embarrassment hit Jaina, pushing blood to her cheeks—

“Warchief,” She managed, crushing the urge to hide her face, to shy away, “H-have you— urgent business with me? If not I— I must ask that we re— reconvene— i-in the morning.”

She _hated_ how weak she sounded, she hated that Thrall was seeing her like this— how could he ever respect her again, now that—

_Thunk._

The Doomhammer sat on the floor at Pained’s feet. 

Thrall ducked into the room, floorboards groaning beneath his weight, and closed the door behind him. 

What—? 

“Yes,” He said. “This seems urgent.” 

The pitcher and plate he set down on the desk. Then he eyed the chair for a moment before deciding against and simply kneeling before her on the floor. He still had to look down at her. 

When he spoke, it was with an almost jarring softness in his guttural voice. 

“The name?” 

Jaina held back a sob. Of _course_ he understood. 

She nodded. “I— I helped you _kill my father.”_

“To save thousands.” 

“My own mother sent an _invasion fleet_ to arrest me.”

“She succeeded him as Lord Admiral, then?”

“Y-yes, she…”

“So she now rules Kul Tiras. There must have been more to the decision than personal feelings.”

“Yes, but— the _family,_ Thrall, what I’ve done t-to my _family—”_ A sob escaped, shook her shoulders, made her fight to get the words out— “Derek, killed by the— the _old_ Horde, father killed by _me,_ it— it’s—”

“Jaina.” 

Thrall raised one of his gauntleted hands and offered it to her, leather-clad palm up. Eyes tired, but soft. 

“You did _not_ kill your father.” 

Another sob wracked her.

“You thought he would see reason," He said. "You thought he would stand down.” 

“I— I should have known _better.”_

“But you _didn’t._ You believed _he_ could be better. That is a _gift —_ not a crime.” 

Shaking, she reached out, and laid her hand in his. Huge, man-crushing fingers closed gently around her own, the leather warm with his body heat. 

“I—” She took a shaky breath. “He’d fought your people for _decades,_ Thrall. How could I think he’d see an army of orcs storming _his daughter’s city_ and _stand down?”_

“What was he like,” Thrall asked, “When you were a child?”

Another wave of sobs. 

“He…” _Breathe, Jaina. Breathe._ “He was a giant. A hero.” 

Thrall squeezed her hand. Smiled sadly. “How could you think he _wouldn’t_ do the right thing?” 

“The right thing.” More tears dripped down her face, struck her lap— “I’ve brought a new war to your shores.” 

“Our shores.” 

_Join the Horde._

She shook the thought away. Thrall didn’t _have_ to come here, didn’t have to comfort her like this, he… he deserved to know _why._

“It’s… it’s just my mother and Tandred now. She never expected to be Lord Admiral. And he never wanted to. I’ve _destroyed_ my family.” _Breathe._ “How can I call myself _Proudmoore,_ now?” 

Thrall’s brows pinched together. He sighed, a great swelling movement that sent the steel rings around his braids clinking against his breastplate. Again, he squeezed her hand. 

“Lady Frostfire, then.” 

“...What?” 

“It’s what my warriors have been calling you since Hyjal.” 

“They…” Jaina blinked. Frowned. “Why? That’s… just one of the spells I used.” 

“Drek’thar begs to differ.” 

Drek…? Right, that old shaman Thrall was so deferential towards. But… “Why?”

“Shag-rúnaz’nukh. Frostfire Ridge. The ancestral home of my Clan.” 

Oh.

“Perhaps a coincidence. Perhaps not. Either way…” He smiled. “You know how we orcs like our titles.” 

Jaina looked down at their joined hands, and the contrast between them. Her own so small and pale, dwarfed by his… but had she not slain as many demons as he had, that day? 

“Lady Frostfire,” She murmured. 

It had a ring to it. 

“Guilt is…” Thrall wet his lips. “Perhaps not the best reason to change one’s name, but...” 

He looked away with a huff… and when he looked at her again, his eyes were darker. Less clear sky, more… stormy sea. “I know how it clings. How it weighs.” 

Fuck.

Why did he have to _understand?_

“Thrall…” Words failed. Instead she slipped forward, off the bed and onto her knees, reaching out to seize him in a hug--

And Thrall _flinched._

Jaina faltered, suddenly and jarringly unsure. He was still holding her hand, so what--? Had she misread something? She’d thought orcs were more physical than humans, when it came to-- 

“It’s not you.” Thrall closed his eyes, jaw flexing and nose wrinkling in frustration. “I…” His voice got even lower and rougher than normal, as if dug up from some place deep within him, such that a tiny shiver ghosted across Jaina’s skin--

“For many years, I received more cruel touches than kind. It’s not you.” 

A quiet _Oh_ spilled from her unbidden.

Of _course,_ but… even in all that armor, he still--?

Something between sadness and rage throbbed in her chest, at that. “Is it… I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have…”

He squeezed her hand for a third time, something unbearably soft in his eyes. “You didn’t know.” 

“I should have.”

“Lady Frostfire,” He said, smiling, “Given the day you’ve had, I think you can be forgiven a few small slips.” 

The name… she wasn’t sure how it felt, in and of itself. But it lacked the aching _weight_ of Proudmoore, and for that she favored it. “I’m… I suppose so.” 

“Besides, it was more the… abruptness, than the motion itself.” 

“Yes, well.” Jaina’s face felt a bit warm. “It’s probably for the best. Wouldn’t want to give myself a concussion on all that metal.” 

That got a deep chuckle -- prompting another shiver from Jaina. 

For a moment they simply kneeled on the floor together, joined at the hand, regarding each other. 

_Easier_ **_together._ **

She took a deep breath.

“Alright.”

Thrall frowned. “What?”

“If the embassy idea is approved… that can be the first step.” 

His eyes widened. “You…?”

“We’ll get our people used to one another. Build bridges. And if all goes well, or-- well _enough..._ then yes. I will push for Theramore to join the Horde.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Big heart orc bf
> 
> NEXT: ORGRIMMAR 
> 
> Orcish key: 
> 
> > Ngashk's little rant is mostly gibberish.  
> > Urukath -- The orcish language.  
> > Thrak maraz-og? -- How recover/heal-you?  
> > Il hrunákh gotho’ang -- That answers-not question-mine  
> > Rom akúwa kur golgonnashar -- Earlier (I) spoke with (the) Warchief. 'Golgonnashar' is one of a bunch of untranslated words & I thought it sounded properly imposing. Might think of a literal translation & etymology later.  
> > G’ashu regárong... -- Me'(he)told orders-yours...  
> > Og’rukan ogar mazak ukkad -- You(object)'risked death to protect (the) unarmed  
> > Kos... athram ralag Common goa… um’raz-og? -- Perhaps/maybe... better to practice/train Common after... healed-you (are) ?  
> > Ek’tuk-og Urukath dun okkawog? -- Understand-you Orcish better than it-speak-you?  
> > Grak -- Imperative form of 'imagine'  
> > Khon'rau-a -- Some form of 'to change something/someone into'  
> > Zur akh vok -- "But not all." Probably grammatically incorrect.  
> > Atruugh gammathar hrovuk’ong -- (I)have-seen (the) power-destructive (of) ice-yours  
> > Irí ghao’eko -- Irí is a particle that expresses when the speaker hopes something is true. Ghao'eko -- Weapon'only  
> > Shag-rúnaz’nukh -- Ridge-(of)-Frost'fire


	5. Orgrimmar

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jaina gets the grand tour. She and Thrall talk shop. He has a surprise for her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Description-heavy chapter.  
> Obviously most people reading this will know what Orgrimmar looks like (at least post-cata), but as a fanfic reader I prefer to have these kind of establishing shots in the character’s POV, otherwise I end up google-searching images of the place just to get a visual of the setting.

**One month later**

If Theramore’s future was to depend on the Horde, Jaina reasoned, she needed to look the part.

Silken mage robes may have earned the wariness and respect of humans and elves… but trolls? Tauren? _Orcs?_

No. She needed to look… _formidable._ Confident. Dangerous. 

‘Not to be fucked with,’ as one of the tailors put it. 

So she commissioned an outfit inspired by Kul Tiran naval uniform. 

First were tan riding pants, in truth little more than thick leggings with a row of brass buttons up each thigh. They were undoubtedly the tightest thing she’d ever squeezed her ass into. Over these she donned leather boots, dark brown and knee-high. Next was a man’s blouse, white, buttoned all the way up to its starched collar, and a waist-hugging vest buttoned over it to contain her bust. Over it all she wore a deep blue tailcoat, with its sleeves sheathed in tooled leather vambraces and its shoulders in pauldrons. The coattails also hid her backside well enough to make her feel comfortable with the whole outfit. 

All of it she enchanted with frost magic, to keep her cool in the heat of Durotar. 

She commandeered some pistols as well, and augmented them with the Arcane… but for this first visit, she left those behind. Many of the Horde’s veterans would have lost comrades to such weapons. 

The Horde she might well be _joining_ , in the coming years, which… well. Once it became more feasible, she was sure it would be more daunting. For now it was just bizarre to think about. 

But it made _sense._ All kinds of sense. 

It would give Theramore more access to the Darkspear and Tauren’s knowledge of medicine. It would give them an opportunity to become stronger of heart, to heal the old wounds that made the _Alliance_ do things like attack their own people and force their only foothold in the entire fucking hemisphere into the arms of another faction. 

With their knowledge and the Horde’s supply of lumber, it would give Theramore a navy to protect them from Kul Tiras. 

It would give her a better position from which to help Thrall prevent war with the Kal’dorei over that lumber. 

And it would grant Theramore the protection of an army of Ngashks. 

Alright, maybe not an army of _Ngashks,_ but still -- a real army, capable of fending off invasions both human and demonic. 

But yes. It would _also_ mean she got to see Thrall more. 

Pained was wonderful, she was a blessing, but Thrall… he _understood._

What sort of providence was _that?_ The leaders of two historically opposed peoples, both far too young and far too scarred, both inside and out? 

Growing up in Kul Tiras, she was raised with a reverence for the Tides, rather than any man-in-the-clouds deity with intricate designs for the world, but… 

Well. It felt significant. 

That he was nice to look at was just a bonus. 

She did feel a bit guilty about having committed to this --however tentatively-- without actually _consulting_ any of her advisors. 

And about the fact that only Pained knew about it. 

She had yet to voice any opinion on it… which of course made Jaina worry incessantly. Grom had killed one of the Night Elves’ _gods._ Not a mythical man in the sky, not a formless divine power, but a living, breathing _patron deity_ that had walked among them. Had fostered their very culture since before humanity even _existed._

What was a few days of forced cooperation, in the face of that? 

But Pained said _nothing_ about it… even as Jaina opened a portal to Durotar. 

Violet sparks danced in the air before her, like a disembodied flare growing larger and brighter -- and as the Horde’s mages completed the circuit, it bloomed into a fizzling, fluctuating ring of light three yards wide. 

The sharp scent of ozone pierced the briny air. Then came the smell of dust and sun-baked rock. 

Between that sun reflected, and the spacetime distortions inherent to the portal, Jaina could only barely make out what awaited on the other side… but that white wolf and black armor were unmistakable. 

Jaina scraped the end of her staff through the Arcane-infused dust she’d scattered over the ground. A few final runes around the edges of the pentacle, and the portal was stabilized. 

Beside her, Tervosh took a deep breath. His own staff flared brighter as he focused on anchoring and maintaining the spell.

Jaina stood tall, and turned to face the volunteers. 

All sixteen of them. 

She wasn’t sure how to feel about that. Wasn’t sure if it was a lot, or a few. 

She’d never established an embassy before, and though her first meeting with Whisperwind and Stormrage was _technically_ a diplomatic mission, it was a far cry from leading a group of jittery humans and elves into a canyon full of orcs and trolls. 

The Tauren were neither here nor there, really. Some were unnerved by them, others charmed… but at the end of the day, they hadn’t spent generations at war with humans _or_ elves, so. Clean slate. 

Jaina looked the volunteers over. Eleven humans, among them the father of the family Ngashk had saved. Four Quel’dorei, among them Ysuria, who was back on her feet thanks to a Darkspear healer that had stayed behind after the thwarted invasion. And Buri, a dwarven architect who suspected he might have a thing or two to teach the Horde about the proper use of canyons. Jaina just hoped he approached that with tact. 

They brought no soldiers with them. Thrall had promised a Kor’kron escort. And Jaina had Pained. 

“Once we step through,” She announced, “We will be there for three days. No backing out. Even if we could keep the portal open the whole time, it would be too great a risk. The people of the Horde had mixed feelings about all of this, just as we do… and Theramore is relying on all of you to assuage those fears and doubts.”

Ysuria bounced on the balls of her feet. “We won’t let you down, Lady Proudmoore.”

Right. 

There was also that.

She had found neither the right moment nor the right method to broach the _Frostfire_ subject with anyone other than Thrall… whose words about guilt echoed in her mind every time she thought about it. Would she be doing it for the right reasons? 

Jaina forced a smile. “If any of you have had a change of heart, now is the time to say so.”

None did. Her smile grew genuine… and a mischievous edge crept into it. “Good. For those of you who haven’t traveled by portal before, some queasiness is not uncommon. If you must vomit, please try to aim it away from others.” 

And before any of them could falter at that, she turned and stepped through. 

Even with the enchantments woven through her clothes, it was like stepping into an oven. Baking heat engulfed her, oppressive and dry. Jaina squinted, eyes burning as they adjusted to the light-- 

“Lady Frostfire!” Thrall boomed. 

All around her, fists struck armored chests. Behind her, one of the volunteers yelped in surprise. 

Jaina raised a hand to shade her eyes, and marched forward with a smile. 

“Golgonnashar.” _Warchief._

She still didn’t know the direct translation for that, or why it had the _-ar_ of a place-name at the end, but at least she pronounced it right this time. “Aka’magosh.” 

_A blessing upon you and yours._

“And upon you and yours.” Thrall sat atop Snowsong, smiling handsomely, edges and spikes of his armor glinting bright. To either side of he and Jaina stood eight warriors, some tauren or trollish but mostly orcs, forming a lane that led to...

 _“Anar’alah…”_ Ysuria murmured. Jaina quite agreed. 

“Welcome,” Said Thrall, “To the city of Orgrimmar.” 

Jaina had never met Orgrim Doomhammer, but the way Thrall spoke and wrote of him made her wish she had, and if half of what Thrall said was true… 

Then yes. 

This seemed a worthy tribute. 

She stood on a packed earth road, lined by what must have been the ribs of whales, stabbing up from the ground, strung with ropes from which hung flags of many colors. 

At the road’s end yawned a great archway of monolithic rock, framed by more dragon-bones, the portcullis within made of sharpened logs and wrought iron.

The wall around it was _easily_ two hundred feet high, blocking the entire mouth of the immense canyon before her. Each block must have taken a team of kodo to move. Its battlements bristled with wooden spikes, and to either side, near the red rock of the canyon walls, rose two colossal towers. Each seemed a bundle of tree trunks, massive ancients of the forest now lashed together by rope and chain to support circular platforms and octagonal canopies as crimson as the Horde flags that rippled in the wind below. 

It could have been a fortress for ogres. For giants. 

“Come.” Thrall’s voice pulled Jaina from her stupor. Snowsong padded forward, bearing him towards her. “There is much to see.” 

He dismounted several paces away, with a _thud_ she felt in her feet. 

“Warchief,” She managed, “This is… quite impressive. You began construction… what, three years ago?” 

“I _did_ tell you I’d met rocks friendlier than the High Overlord.” 

Jaina stared up at him, incredulous. _“Met_ seems like a bit of an understatement.”

He chuckled. Looked away. Scratched Snowsong behind the ears.

Possibilities bloomed in Jaina’s mind -- Horde shamans repairing Theramore faster than any mason, strengthening the fortifications, raising more dry land on which to build… 

“Much of the city is still under construction,” He said. “Walls were simply our first priority.” 

“Well then.” Jaina’s gaze returned to the great gates. “Are you going to give us the tour?” 

Thrall smiled as if repressing a much _bigger_ smile… and Jaina found herself doing the same.

He was _excited._

“Are you going to introduce me to your brave ambassadors?” He asked. 

She glanced back at them. Buri and Ysuria still stood transfixed. The other High Elves looked mildly offended by the amount of dust around them. The humans just looked sweaty. 

“Perhaps once we’ve found some shade?” 

“Of course.” Thrall turned to his escort, and bellowed: “Kor’kron!”

Sixteen fists hit sixteen chest. One warrior for each Theramore volunteer -- around whom they now formed a loose ring, with Jaina and Thrall… on the outside? 

Right. 

They had to keep up appearances. Conquering heroes, and all that.

The Warchief whispered something to Snowfang… and the wolf’s eyes locked with Jaina’s. 

Something deep within her told her to go still, to make no sudden movement, and so she didn’t -- even as Snowsong padded towards her, a strange intelligence in her gaze. 

_She knows me,_ Jaina told herself, _from Hyjal, and via her bond with Thrall, she_ **_must--_ **

Snowsong ambled past her, and stopped.

Jaina found herself standing between Warchief and wolf. 

“Shall we?” Asked Thrall. 

Past the whale-bone road and the great gates stretched a tunnel of hammered steel, its ceiling high and vaulted. Thick pillars lined the walls, and between them crackled iron braziers, the smoke laced with cloying incense. 

Behind her, one of the volunteers coughed -- and several of the Kor’kron watched them sharply before looking away. 

“A gift,” Said Thrall, “From the Night Elves. Demons can’t stand the smell.” 

“If I may,” Pained offered, voice a little choked. “You needn’t burn so much to expose them.” 

Oh no. Her elven senses... 

Pained offered her a tight smile. _I’m fine._

Jaina offered a middle ground: “Better to have and not need, I suppose, than to need and not have.” 

“Indeed,” Said Thrall. 

Even with the large braziers, it was dim enough in the tunnel that she found herself shielding her eyes as they emerged from it.

The wall blocked much more than intruders. 

A hundred sounds washed over her along with the desert heat -- skin drums, feet scuffing dust and gravel and metal, the lowing of kodo, the hissing cries of wind-riders far above… and over it all, the rhythms of construction. Guttural voices chanted, one calling and many answering. Hammers and chisels banged and clinked, winches creaked… 

Jaina smelled roasting meat and fish. 

Her eyes adjusted to the light.

“Behold,” said Thrall, “The Valley of Strength.” 

And that it was.

Buildings lined the canyon walls — from squat, one-story barracks to great towers, all were variations on the octagonal, wood-and-hide architecture Jaina had seen sketched in histories of the First and Second Wars. Many of them were half-built, surrounded by hardy scaffolding, teams of workers carving and tying and hammering...

Wooden ramps spiraled up around the central spokes of the towers and formed walkways between them. Rope bridges connected them to the high ridges of the canyon’s interior, on which sat rows of whalebone yurts, pale smoke rising from the holes in their roofs. 

And above it all, teams of orcs and trolls dangled from the lip of the canyon, working to drill great spikes into the rock, and between them suspend wide patches of sailcloth so as to cast shade over the valley. 

At the center of it all, among a scattering of palm trees, was a circular hall built entirely of red rock, held together by steel beams. Around it gathered dozens of orcs, tauren, and trolls, engaged in heated conversation… that stuttered to a halt as they caught sight of Jaina and her entourage. 

All around, the people of Orgrimmar paused. 

Kodo-drivers let their reins fall slack, the bundles of lumber and crates of ore in their carts forgotten. A group of trolls stopped dancing, though their Tauren drum ensemble played on. 

A gaggle of orcish children, all of them the size of adult dwarves, stopped and stared. 

Thrall waited for nearly the entire valley to go still, hundreds of people looked up at their Warchief and the band of scrawny humans behind him. 

Then he stepped forward, and shouted in Orcish: 

“People of the Horde! Our southern neighbors have come in peace, to look upon the glory of Orgrimmar! What say you?” 

And the crowd roared. 

_“Throm’ka!”_

_“Taz’dingo!”_

_“Nechiich ki halechi!”_

Fists pumped the air. Smiles shone in the sun.

Jaina couldn’t help but wonder how much of it was for her people, and how much of it was for the Warchief. But she knew better than to dwell on that.

Thrall looked back at her with a proud smile, and gestured for them to follow. 

She did. 

“Much of our trade is conducted here,” Said Thrall. “Fish from the coast, lumber from Azshara, rock and ore from Durotar. Maize and other crops from Mulgore. Herbs from Dustwallow, and the medicines the Darkspear make of them.”

“We may be able to offer more,” Jaina glanced at Snowsong, who on all fours was level with her shoulders. The great beast seemed content to guard her flank. “Buri here,” She gestured to the dwarf in a way she hoped was graceful— “Hails from the great mountain stronghold of Ironforge, and is well versed in the methods of its construction. A form of… what did you call it, Buri?”

“Shamanic sculpture, Milady.”

Thrall’s eyes lit up at that, just as Jaina hoped. “And you would be willing to trade such expertise to the Horde?”

“If the trade be fair, then aye.” Buri bowed his head, just slightly. “Yer majesty.” 

If Thrall was offended by the implication that it might _not_ be fair, he didn’t show it. “For that willingness, you have my gratitude.”

Buri crossed his arms, and shrugged. “Beggin’ yer pardon, Milord, but it weren’t no great effort. Ain’t as if there be any _successful_ conquering tae forgive, is it?” 

Jaina internally cringed, and fought back the urge to close her eyes or pinch the bridge of her nose… but Thrall just smiled down at the man, and said warmly: “I suppose not.” 

“In addition,” Jaina interjected, “With the aid of the Darkspear, our portal master has recovered greatly.” She turned to Ysuria, who curtsied. “She is willing to exchange her knowledge for that of Horde shamans -- as am I.”

Thrall’s smile grew even brighter. “Well, _this_ shaman is certainly interested. But I will need to confer with my fellows.”

“Of course.”

Thrall then led them down through the Valley, passing through as much shade as possible along the way… and as the crowds parted before them, Jaina found herself unsure of what expression to make. She had assumed that the aloof noblewoman-face she had been taught to wear as a child would suffice -- but now, as she looked around, it seemed too… _fake._ Everywhere there were bare thighs and bellies, pierced lips and noses and tusks, and unguarded physical affection between men and men, women and women… she even spotted a few trollish dancers, scantily clad and moving in ways that would have been _scandalous_ back east.

These people didn’t _restrain_ themselves like humans did. 

They had their own senses of modesty, and if shame held any sway over them, it was in a form Jaina did not recognize. 

She glanced at Thrall. He was stoic, but far from aloof. He smiled at children, saluted elders, and even tossed fond half-insults at those he seemed to have some degree of friendship with -- and those friends were unafraid to tease him _back._

These people followed him, _loved_ him, because of who he was. Because of what had done for them when no one else could. _Not_ because his father happened to be a chieftain. Not because his bloodline was supposedly chosen by some god or another. 

So, with some difficulty, Jaina let fall her aristocratic mask and did her best to behold Orgrimmar unguarded. 

It was… a lot to take in. 

Here, a trollish child sat atop the shoulders of a hulking Tauren, staring with wide-eyed curiosity at the visitors-- and when she saw Jaina looking, waved shyly. 

Jaina conjured a flower of ice in front of the girl, and smiled as she gaped in wonder at it. Those tiny tusks were _cute._

There, an aging orcish man watched from the shade of a palm tree, eyes narrowed in distrust. 

A goblin woman gesticulated wildly from her perch atop a barrel, trying to sell them some handheld clockwork device Jaina could make neither heads nor tails of while her friend seemed primed to catch her if she fell. 

And all around, warriors stood like statues in the chaos, saluting as the procession passed. 

At length the canyon branched left, and cool, humid air washed over Jaina’s flushed skin. 

Next to her, Thrall stopped. 

“The Valley of Spirits,” He said, “Is home to many of the Darkspear.” 

The Darkspear clearly had the right idea about how to handle this heat.

The canyon before her was narrower, such that even at midday half of it was shaded. Combined with the water that cascaded from crags in the rock walls and submerged the Valley floor, it was a veritable oasis. Palms and reeds grew thick and lush across its banks, and seemed the district’s primary building materials. 

A walkway of lashed-together trunks wound through the Valley, and on high stilts around it stood a great many thatch-roofed dwellings of varying height. Trolls sat dangling their feet over the edges, fishing.

Overhead, rope bridges ran between burrows in the canyon walls. Jaina caught sight of a few sentries, armed with spears. 

Somewhere in the forest of buildings, someone was playing a wooden flute. 

Thrall started forward. Jaina followed. 

As they stepped onto the walkway, a bird call rang out through the canyon. 

Footsteps on wood drew her attention right -- to where a tall, slender Darkspear woman was descending from the first large stilt-house flanked by four warriors clad in bamboo armor, their spears decorated with bright feathers.

She herself wore a tan skirt and and crochet chest-covering, both pale against her dark blue skin. There were necklaces as well, beaded with animal bones and iridescent scales, and several large hoops hung from both ears. Her hair was braided tight against her scalp, like rows of wheat. A strip of black ink divided her lower lip, and more tattoos adorned almost all her visible skin -- which was quite a lot. Jaina spotted snakes, phases of the moon, geometric patterns-- 

“Warchief,” The woman said, her Common thickly accented, “Good shade upon yuh.”

“And upon you.” Thrall turned to Jaina. “Tsaadu is one of the Darkspear’s foremost witch-doctors… and has volunteered to act as their ambassador. She will be accompanied by herbalists and hunters.”

“Lady Frost-fiyah.” The witch-doctor bowed, dark eyes meeting Jaina’s. “It be an honor t’meet yuh.” 

“The honor is mine. I look forward to welcoming you to Theramore.” 

“An’ I look forward tuh seein’ it.” She surveyed the group before her, gaze fixing on the elves. “Been a long time since any troll stood this close t’our small-tooth cousins wit’out bloodshed.”

Several of them looked constipated at the word _cousins._

Ysuria kept a straight face, and smiled up at the witch-doctor. “A unique opportunity to learn from one another.”

“An opportunity too good tuh pass up.” 

“Witch-doctor...” Said Jaina, “Tell me, was that title translated from Zandali, or simply applied at some point by humans who cared not to understand?” 

Tsaadu stared at her for a moment. Blinked. Then she looked to Thrall, and said: 

“Wit respeck, Warchief… whateva y’gotta do t’keep dis one alive an’ leadin’ ha people? _Do it.”_

Thrall beamed. “My thoughts exactly. 

She looked back to Jaina. _“Zulula_ be de word yuh lookin’ for.” 

“Thank you for indulging me.”

“Oh trust me, I haven’t.” A mischievous smirk tugged at Tsaadu’s lips, and her eyes went half-lidded as she looked Jaina over. _“Yet.”_

What--?

Oh.

_Oh._

Blood rushed to Jaina’s cheeks, and words failed her. “You-- I’m, uh-- that is, I--” 

“Zulula…” Said Thrall, voice a little strained, “Our new allies may need _time_ to adjust to certain facets of Darkspear diplomacy.” 

Tsaadu’s smirk bloomed into a grin. “As yuh say, Warchief. Just as we’ll be needin’ tuh adjust t’all dat human…” She waved her hand as if weaving a spell. “... _properness.”_

Jaina was quite sure she meant _prudishness._

“Yes,” She managed. “Our peoples have a great deal we can learn from each other.” 

“More than we yet know, I think.” She crossed her arms. “Yuh thirsty?” 

*****

After taking water in Tsaadu’s home, they followed Thrall along a carven walkway overlooking the Valley of Strength, and through ‘the Drag’ -- a curve of canyon even narrower than the last, enough so that the series of sailcloths above shaded it entirely. They passed the yawning mouth of a great cavern, descending into what Thrall called the Cleft of Shadow, described as the home of the Horde’s various magic practitioners, and did not offer a tour of. 

Jaina wasn’t sure what to make of that. She trusted him now more than ever, but it was… _odd._ She _knew_ the knew Horde despised warlocks, so what could there be to hide? 

Perhaps he was just too busy to extend the tour any farther. 

The Drag was lined with hardy orcish dwellings, many of them workshops, supply depots, and tanneries. Lines of laborers poured in and out, collecting building materials, with cloths over their faces to protect from the smell. Thrall said he’d struck a bargain with the air spirits to alleviate the problem, but that they were by nature fickle.

Halfway through the Drag they turned right, into another metal-coated hall, its ceilings high enough for wind-riders to fly through -- which several did. Warriors of every race save for goblins stood evenly spaced throughout, standing guard. More than a few looked familiar. 

Around a few corners, the hall opened onto… well. In hindsight, the other districts were just stretches of canyon, of varying sizes, but _this… this_ was a valley.

“The Valley of Honor.”

It was dominated by three fortress-like keeps, each built _entirely_ from wrought iron and crowned with cruel spikes, among which climbed laborers, beating away with hammers and chisels, many in time to the beat of drums. 

Smaller buildings clustered around the keeps like cactus sprouts around the main body, some of their roofs opening like steel flowers to belch caustic black smoke -- _forges,_ she realized. The Valley was divided in half by a wide creek, fed by another, larger waterfall that thundered down from atop the city’s central mesa.

Its song was that of hammers and anvils, red-hot metal sizzling as it was quenched, shouting voices, swords and axes clashing… 

Across the creek, long columns of warriors marched to and fro, many chanting. Mounted officers rode back and forth on direwolves, barking out commands. Everywhere hung the crimson flag of Orgrimmar. 

“This Valley is home to many of our troops,” Said Thrall, “As well as the craftspeople who keep them armed and armored. Here we host tournaments, feasts, and festivals.” 

Jaina just wanted to see the _mines_ this all came from. She doubted there was this much metal in all of Boralus. 

The thought of which brought her down again. 

From there they returned to the Drag, followed it to its end… and emerged into the Valley of Wisdom. To the right, yet another waterfall poured into a vast pool. Reeds and ferns grew thick around it, and from them rose Tauren totems. 

beyond that, nestled into the far wall of the canyon, rose the thick walls and horned battlements of Grommash Hold… and just in front of it, mounted on a dead tree… 

Jaina gasped. 

“Is that--?” 

Thrall’s voice came low and grave. “Yes. Save for the green of our skin… this is all that remains.” 

_Mannoroth_. 

Jaina had seen plenty skulls in her life. Far more than she ever expected to see. None of them looked like this. 

It wasn’t just the teeth, each easily the length of her forearm and razor-sharp. It wasn’t just the tusks that curved out from either side, like those of a mammoth bred for battle. 

The bone _itself_ was wrong. 

The brows were thick and ridged, as if it were not a skull but a macabre helmet forged by an especially creative smith. Along its every curve and bump were small spikes, and the color… 

Even bleached by the ruthless Durotar sun, there was a _sheen_ to it, dark and oily and faintly green. 

One of the elves murmured something. It sounded fearful. 

To either side of the skull were pauldrons that must have taken a crane to lift, and below, lashed to the tree’s bulbous trunk, was the demon’s breastplate -- split almost in half by Hellscream’s final, furious strike. The dark metal had a sheen similar to its wearer’s bones. 

And… was she imagining that foul _pressure_ in the air? 

“Towáteke, Golgonnashar.” 

Jaina blinked away her musings. 

Towards her entourage came a group of orcs and tauren -- the eldest of whom had spoken. From his horns hung all manner of charms, and in one large hand he carried a walking stick. Beside him, a wizened orcish woman with silver-grey braids relied on her own staff, and beside _her_ walked a young orcish man in black steel armor, his countenance fierce and stern. 

“Towatekáwa, Aloáki.” Thrall bowed his head, and saluted. 

“Eché po Lady Frostfire?”

“Zhi,” Said Thrall. Then he turned to Jaina, and gesturing to the old Tauren, said: “This is Wildcaller Olom,” --he gestured to the old Orc-- “Farseer Yaghna,” --to her young escort-- “and Ariok, son of Eitrigg. They and their retinue will represent Thunder Bluff and Orgrimmar respectively, at the embassy in Theramore.” 

Two generations of orc. Wise… though by the look on Ariok’s face, Jaina strongly suspected he had _not_ volunteered. 

She both saluted the orcish way and bowed to the elders. “We will be honored to host you, and to hear your wisdom.” 

“Ke’ávak ri háragau megosh khun’gorá,” Thrall translated, “Ro vanád ghúruk-wong.” 

He glanced at Jaina. “They will bring interpreters.” 

“And I will relish the chance to hone my Orcish nonetheless,” She told him. 

Thrall smiled widely. “Os ak’lóhngur.” _To the Hold, then._ “Khap koké'ashk nógo ro tesh.” _Food and water await within._

*****

They decided upon viewing the embassy site in the morning, while the sun was still low and the heat still mild. 

With introductions complete, the volunteer ambassadors had been led off to their temporary quarters, leaving only Thrall, Jaina, and Pained in the Hold’s central chamber. 

She sat in a high-backed wooden chair. 

He sat atop his throne. 

To either side of it, flames crackled in twin braziers, casting flickering light over its brutal form.

The base, steps, and seat were carved from solid stone, over which was draped the pelt of a full-grown Alterac bear, such that its fearsome jaws hung snarling silently above Thrall’s head, and its great claws hooked over the armrests beneath his hands. All around him, curving out from the throne’s back and up from the stone like the petals of some macabre flower, were the bones of his conquests. The horns of demons, the tusks of wild boars, the toothy jaws of lions and crocolisks… 

The Doomhammer sat head-down between his heavy metal boots.

Jaina abruptly felt very out of her depth. 

_A Warchief is not a king._ How many times had she told herself that, in preparation for this visit? She’d meant it as a reminder to watch carefully the ways in which his people treated him differently than humans might a king, but… well, she hadn’t realized how _true_ it was. 

He _wasn’t_ a king -- he wasn’t ruler by luck of birth alone, but a ruler _chosen,_ a conqueror and a unifier, a leader and _hero_ to hundreds of thousands… 

How did he do it? How did he hold it all together? 

“I think that went well,” He rumbled. Jaina looked up, and found his eyes closed, his head leaned back against the fur-draped stone. 

She let out a slow breath, forcing herself to relax into the high-backed wooden chair she’d been provided, beside the throne. Then she turned her focus inward, to the mana flowing through her body, down her arm, into her fingertips… 

With a curl of her fingers, the chair lifted off the floor, and levitated around so that she could face Thrall properly. 

His eyes blinked open -- and he chuckled. “I’m lucky air spirits are so resistant to bargains. If I could do _that,_ I wouldn’t walk _anywhere.”_

She smiled. “It’s not as easy as it looks.” 

“Oh, I don’t doubt that, just…” He waved a few fingers vaguely. “...remarking on the differences between elemental magic and arcane, I guess.” 

For the first time that day, Jaina really _looked_ at him, free of an audience… and scolded herself for being blinded by his strength. 

There were dark bags under his eyes. 

“So,” He said, “What do you think?” 

“Of Orgrimmar?” 

He hummed affirmatively. Jaina reminded herself that was perfectly polite in orcish culture. 

“I…” She paused. Took a moment to gather her thoughts. “Might I convince you to ask me that again in the morning?” 

He smiled tiredly. “Fair enough. Though I do wonder…” 

“Yes?” 

He looked away, and brought one hand up to toy with his tusk ring, making it glint in the firelight… and perhaps it was just a trick of that light, but his face seemed to grow darker, especially around his cheeks… what was-- 

“After Durnholde,” He said, “Some of my warriors brought me a crate they had salvaged, full of records, reports, and other texts… among them the writings of one Archmage Antonidas.”

Jaina wasn’t sure what she’d expected, but that wasn’t it. 

The name alone put an ache in her chest. 

“Yes,” She said. “I’ve read those.”

And Thrall, Tides bless him, missed nothing. “You knew this person?”

Jaina nodded. “All…. _most_ of what I know of magic, I learned from him.” 

Thrall’s expression softened. “How did he die?” 

Rotting faces flashed through Jaina’s mind. She could almost smell the foul miasma that heralded their coming… 

Bile rose in her throat. “The Scourge.” 

Thrall’s countenance darkened — but his voice remained gentle. “If you wish, I will tell his story.” 

“You…” Jaina blinked. Her eyes were starting to burn. “Really?” 

“Without him, you might not be here -- and without you, we would not have triumphed at Hyjal. He deserves to be remembered.” 

...Aaand now she was crying. Great. 

“I’m sorry,” He said, “I didn’t mean to—”

“It’s not you.” She wiped her eyes. “Or— it _is_ you, in a good way? I just… thank you.”

Thrall sat back again, his armor clunking against the stone. “Of course.” 

Jaina clasped her hands in her lap. “You were trying to tell me something?” 

“Yes, and being needlessly wordy about it.”

“What? Thrall, you’re a good storyteller.” 

He shrugged, which was rather impressive given the sheer amount of metal on his shoulders. “I’ve read a lot of stories.”

Read? Not heard? 

...how _had_ he learned to read common? 

“I always knew what humans thought of orcs,” He said, “By how they treated us. But the Archmage’s writings… they gave me a window into _why_. Beyond the obvious reasons, I mean. Things they would have judged us for even if we had come in peace. Things like how we carry ourselves, how we clothe ourselves, how we show affection, who we show it to…” 

Oh. Were orcs anything like elves, in that regard? 

“Culture clash,” She supplied. “Yes, I’ve had similar thoughts.” 

“Any you care to share?” 

“Well…” She considered. “I’m not exactly the average human.” 

He tilted his head slightly, as if to say _go on_. 

“The vast majority of my people hail from the mainland. From different regions and nations, yes, but with largely similar values. Kul Tiras was founded by _pirates.”_

“Yes,” Said Thrall, “I’ve read of it.”

...huh.

“Have you now?” 

“One of my favorite books as a child was a history of naval warfare.” 

Alright. 

“Warchief…”

“Lady?” 

“I hate to divert the conversation yet again, but…” 

Thrall’s brows creased, and his lips tightened over his tusks. “With all due respect, this has been a good day.”

What?

“I would rather not end it on a bitter note.”

Oh.

“Of course,” She said. “My apologies, I didn’t mean to pry…” 

“It’s alright.” He waved it off. “You were saying, about Kul Tiras?” 

“Yes— piracy is not unlike banditry, you see, in who it attracts.” 

Thrall nodded. 

“Obviously many of the most famous corsairs are famous for their cruelty, but for each one of them are a dozen people who simply have no better prospects. People pushed to the edges of society.” 

“So… Kul Tiras was founded by those the mainland rejected, and is culturally unique for it?”

“Precisely,” She said. “And after being raised Kul Tiran, I traveled to Dalaran, to study. Have you read much of Dalaran?” 

“Some. But most of it focused on the magic, not the culture.” 

“Well, that culture was the most diverse of all the Eastern Kingdoms. Nowhere else did elves, humans, and dwarves mingle so freely.”

“Do they not mingle freely in Theramore?”

“Yes, and _every day_ I wish I’d somehow gotten a copy of Dalaran’s code of law.” The words came out more acidic than intended, and she clenched one hand into a fist. “Just two weeks ago I had to sentence a _dozen men_ to hard labor for _harassing people_ because they happen to prefer their own gender!” 

Damn it. She did _not_ mean to-- damn it. “Which before you ask is common among High Elves. And in Kul Tiras. The same-gender-loving, not the being-arseholes-about-it part.” 

Thrall blinked, clearly caught off-guard by her outburst. Then he smiled, fondly. “I think you and Saurfang might get along well.”

“...why is that?” 

His expression hardened slightly. “Did you read the part of Antonidas’ studies concerning the Shadow Council?” 

Oh. “Yes, but… well, it was admittedly rather sparse.”

“As more and more orcs came to distrust their foul magics, they made new laws forbidding that kind of love between people of the same gender. They claimed such relationships robbed the Horde of children who could grow into warriors… but in truth they just wanted to redirect the people’s distrust away from themselves. Saurfang can tell you more about it -- but fair warning, his feelings about it border on violent.” 

Jaina crossed her arms. _“Violent?”_

“When I need a warlock either slain or interrogated, Saurfang is the one I send. If I want them captured _alive,_ I send someone else.” 

“...well," Said Jaina, "Now I’m curious about your own feelings on the matter.” 

Could he… _prefer_ men? 

Thrall thumbed his tusk ring yet again. “They’re strong enough. But not as strong as if I’d lived through those times."

Well, that told her nothing.

Wait. 

Did she really just try to pry into the sex life of another head of state? 

She silently began praying that the dimness of the Hold concealed her raging blush. 

_What the_ **_fuck,_ ** _Jaina._

She just needed sleep. She was just too tired to wrangle her curiosity, that’s all it was… 

“So,” Said Thrall, “How goes it?” 

“...it?” 

“The… bridge-building, as it were. From your end.” 

Jaina’s first impulse was to tell him everything, to vent all the anxious pressure that had built up inside her and hear his own worries in return… but years of aristocratic schooling seized the urge and crushed it down. 

Instead, she sat up prim and proper, told him: “I must admit, I find myself wishing for sounder foundations upon which to build, but my... _workforce,_ as it were, is both much smaller than your own and much more desperate. I can only imagine how you’re managing.” 

For a moment he seemed to mull that over. Then without warning he rose from his throne, and descended towards her.

Tides, he was tall. 

With a grunt, he crouched down and sat on one of the steps, low enough that he was eye level with Jaina, and no more than a few strides away. He leaned forward, bracing his elbows on his leg-plates, such that his braids swung forward.

“Other than myself,” He said, “The Tauren have been the most vocal supporters of this exchange. The Darkspear, meanwhile, do not yet trust your people, but neither do they carry the same bitter grudges as their eastern cousins.” 

“And the orcs?” 

“Well, you made a good impression on Saurfang. He is one of my most experienced generals, and well-liked by both young and old, so that counts for a lot. And all my advisors, regardless of their personal feelings towards humanity, see the need for a navy. For now, that is enough.” 

Jaina frowned. “Wait, you’ve... told your people we’re going to help you build a navy?” 

“No, I--” Thrall huffed. “I’m sorry, that was misleading. I have told them nothing of the sort -- I have merely _implied_ that a stronger relationship with Theramore might lead to such a trade.” 

“Oh.” Jaina wet her lips. “Right, yes.” 

“My apologies,” Said Thrall, “The hour grows late.” 

Jaina swallowed her disappointment. “Shall we adjourn for the evening, then?” 

“We could, yes -- but I had hoped to hear about your side of this... bridge-to-be." 

“Of course.” She considered that, for a breath. “Well, I’m still the ruler of Theramore.” 

He frowned. “...What?” 

“After the invasion… I had my doubts. What with the mutineers and all.” 

He rumbled in a way that was… somehow understanding. And encouraging. 

“So I called for an informal vote -- which was how the Kirin Tor decided many things in Dalaran, but this was… a bit of a gamble, I guess, to try it with so many people. I gave them the opportunity to call for my resignation.”

“And here you are.” 

“Yes.” She allowed a smile to creep onto her face. “Nearly ten thousand people, and only a few dozen wanted me gone.” 

“You expected more?” 

“I don’t know. It was all rather messy.” 

“You seem to be handling it alright.”

“I’m doing my best.” She tucked a stray lock of hair behind her ear. “Which includes getting the embassy built.” 

“Oh?” His smile was as warm as the fires beside him. 

In the end, over a thousand people had voiced their preferences for the embassy… and only a few dozen objected to hosting such an embassy outright. “The hardest part was honestly deciding where to put it.” 

“Yes,” Said Thrall. “I think I can relate.” 

Many wanted it outside the city, just across the bridge. Jaina made clear that would defeat the purpose. General Lorena, who now represented the City Guard on the council, made clear the ‘mutineers at large’ issue.

Despite quite a lot of griping that more or less amounted to _‘Big fuckers can handle themselves, innit?’_ , Jaina and the General stood firm on that, and the people soon came around. 

Which of course led to the Council hearing a hundred conflicting opinions on where exactly _in_ the city to build the damn thing. 

The East-siders wanted it on the West side, the West-siders wanted it on the East side, the North-siders wanted it on the South side, and vice versa. Half of them didn’t want it too close to any of the gates, but of course weren’t comfortable having it near any of their neighborhoods either. 

“They were laying the foundations when I departed,” She said. 

She didn’t mention the perception problem. 

To those who had come from towns and villages, for so long under the thumb of any king or lord or brigand that could rally enough men, to be given say in such an important decision was wonderful -- and made them more supportive of Jaina than ever before. 

To those who had come from the great cities of the Eastern Kingdoms, made rich by their kings’ control over those smaller communities, Jaina allowing the rabble so much influence over such an important decision was a sign of weakness. 

Thankfully, the former outnumbered the latter. 

Unfortunately, the latter were much richer than the former; some owned the ships that made the journey possible, others the grain reserves that fed the city even now. 

When Jaina formed the City Council, she’d been forced to give several seats to such men. 

She just hoped none of them sympathized with Greyshield. 

But she was still the ruler of Theramore. 

And the people of Theramore had decided to host a Horde embassy. 

So overall, she was... relieved. Encouraged, even. 

Just in the most anxious way possible. 

“Well then.” Thrall untied a water-skin from his belt, uncapped it, and offered it to her. “To bridges.” 

She should really bring someone around to paint his portrait. That armor, that hammer, that throne behind him, _and_ that smile? It deserved to be immortalized. 

She took the water-skin. “To bridges.” 

She drank -- and hummed in surprise. “Is there… honey in this?”

“And an herbal concoction. It keeps my voice from going.” 

Were they anywhere else but in his throne room, representing their peoples, she would have asked to hug him. As it was, she just smiled, and drank.

“Before we do adjourn,” He said, “There is something you should know.”

His expression was deathly serious. That damned anxious knot returned to Jaina’s stomach. “Alright.”

He huffed. Stood. With one hand he hefted the Doomhammer onto his shoulder. The other he offered to Jaina. 

She capped the waterskin. “Is everything alright?” 

“Yes. I’m simply not the one to explain it.”

She took his hand, and let him effortlessly pull her to her feet. 

Which was… rather nice. 

“Follow me.”

She did -- out of the throne room and down a wide and curving hall, past hide-draped doorways through which came low chanting and the scent of burning herbs, up a rough-hewn staircase -- at the top of which Pained’s voice stopped Jaina in her tracks. 

“My Lady,” She hissed. 

Jaina turned to find the elf looking up at her, eyes hard, one hand on the hilt of her sword. 

“What is it?”

Pained’s eyes slid to Thrall, narrowing ever-so-slightly. 

“Pained…”

“It’s all right,” Said the Warchief. “Had I senses sharp as hers, I would be wary too.”

The ex-Sentinel stepped up, past both of them. “I will go first.”

Thrall didn’t argue that.

Jaina’s heart was pounding. 

Another, smaller hall brought them before a door of heavy oak, barred with a beam of wrought iron… which Pained was looking at as if it were a venomous snake. 

Thrall spoke low and quiet. “I have discovered who aided us in the defense of Theramore.” 

Jaina stared at him. That dark ship had vanished into the night, pursued by the remaining Kul Tiran vessels, and for a month now, her troops had found no trace of any fourth party in all of Dustwallow. 

“Your people, it seems, are not the only ones seeking refuge in the Horde.” 

With that he nodded to the Kor’kron that stood flanking it, and they slid the bar from its hooks with a metallic rasp. 

The door opened with a creak. 

Pained went first. Jaina second -- and found herself face to half-rotted face with a living corpse. 

Her stomach twisted, her heart _slammed_ against her ribs, and frostfire blazed unbidden in her free hand. 

“That won’t be necessary,” Said Thrall. 

“Warchief--” Her voice was choked, her throat dry-- “What--?”

“Lady Frostfire of Theramore… this is Ambassador Lansire, of the Forsaken.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> NEXT: THREE SEEDS
> 
> Re: the Buri-Thrall interaction -- the first Horde invaded a lot of dwarven territory, but never managed to breach Ironforge itself. 
> 
> Re: Darkspear diplomacy -- I'm aware that I'm toeing the line of the 'hypersexual WoC' trope w this scene. But that trope evolved, in part, from Europeans projecting their own sexual hangups onto other cultures, which via the European-inspired human cultures of Azeroth & the PoC-inspired Horde factions (which like... there's a whole lot to unpack w that), will be a major plot point, and something Jaina, Thrall, and the other leaders will have to work on. ("No, they're not slutty, it's just fucking hot here and they haven't been raised to sexualize breasts" etc.)


	6. Three Seeds

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jaina meets some nice people, and learns some not-so-nice things.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There is... a LOT of ground to cover with this fic. I'm back and forth between the gamepedia timeline, Cycle of Hatred, and the history section of the pages for multiple characters and places.  
> I'm just tryna smush canon into a vehicle to get Jaina to some sweet culturally educational orc makeouts, really.

“Good evening, My Lady.” The corpse bowed at the waist, stiff and jerky. Its voice was weak, parched… and _singular_. 

This was not a necromancer speaking through their puppet. 

Jaina dismissed the frostfire from her palm. Forced herself to breathe.

She couldn’t smell decay -- there was only incense, curling up from perforated iron pyramids at the four corners of the low table that sat between them, and the scent of pine resin, and beneath that… something chemical? 

Jaina looked closer. 

The corpse was draped in purple robes, ragged and threadbare, but clean. 

It had rotted… but it wasn’t rotting _now._

This was not the torn, bloody flesh of a repurposed soldier, but the dry, leather-like skin of a mummy, pulled tight over its cheekbones, its lips nought but a withered ring of gristle around receding black gums and stained, chipped teeth. She could see sutures, where its face had been sown up. 

“My apologies.” With a skeletal hand, the corpse reached up and removed the dark glasses from its eyes. One glowed not an icy blue, but a faint, sickly yellow. The other was glass, shining in the lantern-light. 

“Does that help?”

It was talking to her. _He_ was talking to her. 

The _Ambassador._

Tides give her strength. 

Swallowing back the nausea, Jaina wet her lips, and croaked out: “Yes. Thank you.”

He put them back on, and took his seat at the table. On it, between the incense holders, sat a lantern, an inkwell, a quill, a half-filled parchment, and several scrolls still in their casings.

“Please.” The Ambassador’s voice was like wind through dead trees. “Sit. Make yourselves comfortable.” 

Jaina stood rooted to the spot… and the Ambassador’s lips pulled back even further. “As much as possible, anyway.”

Was… was that a _smile?_

A chair dragged over the floor beside her, and Thrall sat.

“The...” Jaina swallowed again. “The Forsaken?” 

“Forsaken by the Light,” Lansire rasped. “Forsaken by the _Alliance_.” 

...what?

“Forsaken by all but the Dark Lady.” 

_Who?_

Thrall looked up at her, gaze apologetic. “They are former citizens of Lordaeron and Quel’thalas. Former slaves of the Scourge.”

Jaina reached out, and seized the back of the free chair. _“Former?”_

“Yes. We are free."

Jaina’s sat, hands shaking, gut in knots.

The Scourge never sent ambassadors, and why would it? But… they’d _defeated_ the undead, here. What new strategy… 

She looked to Thrall. He sat tall, tense, but… not battle-ready. The Doomhammer sat on the floor beside him. 

“How?” She asked.

Lansire took a rattling breath. “The Lich King spread his power too far, and too thin.” 

The _what?_

“His control slipped. The Dark Lady broke free, and slew his lieutenants. Freed the rest of us.” 

“The rest?” She managed. 

_How many?_ Lordaeron had a population of _millions,_ before the Plague, before the Scourge -- how many were-- 

“The Dark Lady has not authorized me to discuss sensitive information such as population.” 

“Authorized you?” 

“Yes.” 

“Then… she commands? She does not _control?”_

“She would _never.”_ Lansire’s eye glowed brighter, and his voice becAme rougher. “Even if she had such power. _Nothing_ is more important to the Forsaken than freedom. Not even vengeance.” 

“Vengeance? Against this… what did you call him?”

“The Lich King.” 

“Yes. Is he the one who…” Tides, she couldn’t bear to say it. Didn’t know _how_ to. 

“Made a _puppet_ of the prince?” Lansire's voice grew sharp and bitter. “Yes. His was the power. The magic. The will to which we were bound.” 

Even four years later, even _knowing_ that was what had happened… it _hurt._

Thankfully, _mercifully,_ no tears came. 

“And…” She gripped her staff. Hard. “The Dark Lady, what are you… _authorized_ to tell us, about her?” 

“She is our savior. She is our Queen.”

Yes, but… 

“For centuries, she commanded the armies of Quel’thalas.” 

...what?

“Now she commands our vengeance, from her throne in the Undercity.” 

Oh no. 

Sun-kissed skin and a rakish smile flashed unbidden through Jaina’s mind. 

No no no no.

“She…” Jaina’s voice shook. “You mean…” 

“In life,” Said Thrall, “She was called Sylvanas Windrunner.” 

Jaina’s stomach clenched. Writhed. 

“Warchief.” 

Thrall’s eyes went wide. “Are you al--” 

“I need--” Too late. Jaina leapt from her chair, turned toward the door, and almost ran into Pained -- who shoved a pitcher into her hands. 

Jaina stumbled into the corner and vomited. 

“Oh good,” Rasped the ambassador. “One puke closer to winning that bet.” 

*****

“Here.” 

Another cup of water _thunked_ onto the table before her. Jaina did her best to drink it politely. She’d gulped the first few down far too fast. 

“I…” She faltered. “My sincerest apologies, Ambassador.” 

“Unnecessary.” He palmed the air appeasingly. “I know a guy who broke free halfway through eating a priest. Decorum’s for the living. No offense.” 

Jaina’s gut gave another clench at the image. “None taken.”

“The Ambassador and his fellows,” Said Thrall, “Have cooperated with the examinations of shamans, druids, and witch doctors… none of whom could find any dark magic save for what little animates them. Their wills are their own.” 

That only raised a dozen more questions -- none of which Jaina was sure she actually wanted the answers to. 

“So...” She took another sip. “Do you… how much do you remember?” 

“Of what the Lich King made us do? Or of our lives before?”

“Either. Both.”

“It varies. Some of us died worse than others. Some decayed more than others. Some were aware of their actions, while others retreated deep within themselves to try and escape. That said? The Warchief has told me of Theramore, Milady; we might be in a position to reconnect some families…. but so were the lords of the Alliance, and here I am. One way or another, _none of us_ are who we were in life.”

This was going to give her a whole new _genre_ of nightmares. 

Jaina finished the water, and straightened up. “The Warchief tells me it was your people who engaged the Kul Tiran navy at Theramore.” 

“The Warchief speaks true.” 

“May I ask why?”

“The Dark Lady saw an opportunity to demonstrate what we can do for the Horde.” 

Right, but… 

She glanced at Thrall, who met her eye with a pensive look… and she knew he’d concluded the same. 

The Forsaken had spies in Alliance territory. Possibly even within the Alliance itself. 

And the Plaguelands were hundreds of leagues north of Stormwind — and even _farther_ from Kul Tiras. To arrive in time to thwart the invasion, even without the need to eat or drink or rest, they’d have to have known what Wrynn was planning months in advance. 

Which meant they had spies in the High King’s keep itself… and maybe Proudmoore Keep as well. 

“The Forsaken,” Said Thrall, “Seek an alliance with the Horde.” 

“Alliance…” A wretched, choked chuckle rattled out of Lansire’s throat. “Let’s say _mutual defense treaty,_ shall we?”

“Very well.” Thrall licked his lips, clearly uncomfortable. “I meant no offense.” 

“Don’t worry about it.” The Ambassador shrugged his bony shoulders. “You’re not the ones chaining us in coffins if we’re lucky and trying to burn the bad out of us if we’re not.” 

“I’m sorry,” Said Jaina. “I can’t pretend to imagine the horrors you’ve endured, but… I empathize with your current plight. The Alliance has rejected Theramore as well.” 

“Damn fools,” Lansire smiled that horrible smile. “Gave up their only foothold in Kalimdor… just when the Horde might be about to gain one in the East.” 

“Nothing is decided yet,” Said Thrall. “My advisors and fellow leaders are still weighing the prospect of a Forsaken embassy here.” 

“Yes, well. I’d be quick about it, if I were you.”

Thrall blinked… and was suddenly as still as a huge, heavily armored statue.

When he spoke, it was low and guttural. 

“Excuse me?” 

He wasn’t even _looking_ at Jaina, and her heart still started pounding. 

_Warchief indeed._

Ambassador Lansire seemed unperturbed. “Just one of a few things the Dark Lady bid me tell you word-for-word… ‘Those who do not stand with the Forsaken stand against us.’” 

*****

“Well,” Said Thrall, walking beside her, “He’s been here for almost a week, and that was the first thing he’s said that even remotely resembled a threat.” 

Jaina had no response for that. 

‘Darkspear diplomacy’ was nothing -- _t_ _his_ was going to take some getting used to. 

Beneath Grommash Hold ran a network of tunnels and caves, delved by Thrall’s earth spirit allies, through which flowed air cooled by the same subterranean reservoirs that fed Orgrimmar’s waterfalls. Already, the frost magic Jaina had woven into her outfit were almost too much. 

After the heat of the tour, it was wonderful. 

Or would have been, had she been more present for it. 

“I’m sorry.”

The softness with which he said it pulled her from her thoughts. 

“I didn’t realize you knew her,” Said Thrall. 

Jaina sighed. “I didn’t. I only met her once, really, but she was… well. The way you talk about Orgrim? Not unlike that. All the history she’d seen, the hard choices she’d had to make, the things she’d achieved, the things she’d _survived_ without losing her courage or compassion, I…” Tides damn it. “She too had… had lost kin in the Second War.”

Thrall rumbled in sympathy. 

“So... I suppose she was a bit of a role model. And now…” 

“The Forsaken look up to her,” He said. “And I suppose I… relate to her, as one who has liberated his people and overseen the aftermath.” 

Oh.

“Right,” She managed. “Yes, that… of course.” 

Fuck. 

Thrall sighed. “Well then -- let us hope some of that heroism survived her death, and be prepared if it has not.” 

She nodded numbly.

The Scourge army had been _millions_ strong. How much of that army would Theramore be standing against, if they didn’t stand _with_ the Forsaken? 

“Here.” 

She looked. Up ahead the right side of the tunnel receded into an alcove, and in it stood a door of oak and iron. 

“You may stay here for the night,” Said Thrall. “I hope it is to your liking. It seems there is not a single coat stand in all of Orgrimmar, so I had an armor stand brought down instead, for your…” He waved uncertainly. “Regalia.” 

“Regalia?” A faint smile tugged at the corner of her lips. “I think I like that. Sounds much better than _uniform.”_

Thrall blinked, and opened his mouth, and closed it again. 

“I’m sure it will be perfect,” She blurted. “The room. I mean, the temperature alone is more than I hoped for.” 

_Tidesdammit Jaina why are you so_ **_awkward--_ **

“Very well,” He said. “We’ll reconvene in the morning, then.”

Jaina gave a slower, softer orcish salute. “I look forward to it, Warchief.”

Thrall bowed just slightly at the waist. His braids swayed. “Lady Frostfire.” 

_Thank you,_ she didn’t say. _Thank you for that name._

*****

Sleep eluded her. 

There was just… so _much._

Orgrimmar, in all its rugged glory. 

The undeniable strength of the Horde, and what it could do for Theramore.

The culture clash they might have to manage, she and Thrall, to make that possible. 

And the Forsaken. 

How many they might be, what _they_ could do for the _Horde,_ the clear _desperation_ in the way they chose to demonstrate it... 

_None of us are who we were in life._

Again Jaina saw the Ranger-General at that ball, smiling roguishly, deceiving her own prince without a second thought to rescue Jaina from his lecherous attention, helping her slip away to the library… 

Standing fast between Quel’thalas and a million rabid corpses. 

_Some of us died worse than others._

She should be used to good people dying horribly, by now, shouldn't she? Why _wasn't_ she? She'd known what happened to Quel'thalas, at least in general terms. Why was this still such a shock? 

...How was she going to break this news to Theramore? 

How was Theramore going to _react?_ They’d lost their homes and families to the Scourge… would they rejoice at the prospect of reconnecting with their loved ones? Or would they see only the horror of it all, and recoil from the Horde for even talking to the Forsaken?

Other than all that, though, it was quite nice. 

In place of a bed, the room had been furnished with a mound of soft furs, in which she now huddled, warming herself.

She found herself rather envious -- not of the furs, but… well, she had to constantly tweak the cooling spells of her quarters back in Theramore. The city’s position between marshland and sea meant that it went from deathly humid to sea-breeze balmy twice a day. 

All she knew for sure was that if Theramore joined the Horde, she was arranging frequent visits to Orgrimmar. When Dustwallow was too hot, she might even just hop through a portal for the night. No one would know. Other than Pained. 

Of course, she could see about getting shamans to delve similar tunnels beneath Theramore --and come to think of it she really _should,_ if for no other reason than to have a secret emergency entrance and exit… 

But also Thrall. 

She just… liked _talking_ to him.

It had been far too long since she spoke with someone who was simultaneously smart, clever, well-read, _and_ didn’t think the point of conversation was to demonstrate one’s intelligence. 

Thrall had no inflated, scholarly ego to show off — just an earnest desire to communicate. To build bridges. 

Tides, if only he could have met Antonidas…

Jaina dearly hoped the Archmage hadn’t been raised by the Scourge, and if he had, that he’d been given the release of true death before he could become one of the Forsaken. 

She immediately felt disgusted with herself for that thought, and refocused on wondering how he might have interacted with Thrall. 

She imagined the two engaged in lively conversation, gesturing with quills and poring over tomes together in a room part archmage’s study, part Warchief’s den... 

Which of course made her wonder what Thrall’s chambers looked like. 

Maybe his chamber door was secured by some special lock mechanism, like an orcish twist on those of the Violet Sanctum. It would be huge, and probably spiked, and all wrought iron, so sturdy it could only be opened by his mighty hands, and inside… 

Furs like these. A stand for his armor, perhaps one for the Doomhammer, but other than that… 

She doubted it would be at all like his throne. Those trophies weren’t for him -- they were for the people. Symbols of his merit, his strength… 

Not that anyone could possibly look at him and _doubt_ his strength. Tides, he’d pulled her to her feet as if she weighed _nothing._

Which… who _wouldn’t_ enjoy that? 

Who wouldn’t feel good about having an ally like that?

...maybe even a friend, like that?

Sure, he’d _called_ her ‘my friend’ once or twice, but that was just… _diplomacy._ The polite way to address a fellow leader with whom you’d achieved so much. 

But that moment in the inn, and then that conversation in the throne room… that _felt_ real. 

She sank back into the furs, and studied the room around her.

It didn’t _look_ like it had been dug. The walls were almost completely smooth, as if eroded by aeons of waterflow. The only signs of hu-- _orcish_ work were the hinges of the heavy wooden door and the shelves carved into the walls… which Thrall had stocked with books and scrolls. 

That put a smile on her face. 

After taking a moment to warm up, Jaina wrapped the smallest of the furs around herself, and padded over to the shelves. 

There were old leather-bound tomes, all in Common-- _A Military History of the Arathi Empire, On the Founding of Kul Tiras, The War of the Three Hammers, The Gnoll War…_

...and then a book bound by iron hinges. Jaina almost fell over lifting it off the shelf, and had to drop it onto the furs. 

She kneeled over it… and paused.

Carved into the metal, rough and angular, were orcish runes-- the simplified versions, phonetic rather than symbolic, consonants with vowels only implied, spelling out _Urukath._

 _Orcsong._ The orcish language. 

The hinges squeaked as she opened it, revealing thick, pulpy parchment, and on it… 

_Studies of the Orcish language_

_As recorded by_

_Thrall, Son of Durotan, Warchief of the New Horde_

And in runes below: 

_Tragh’vad Urukath_

_ako’u_

_Thrall mok’Durotan, Golgonnashar Khwáurun’toh_

She turned the page -- and found an exact copy of the runic alphabet chart Thrall had sent to her almost a year ago, now. 

No — _that_ must have been the copy.

She turned to the next page, and then the next. 

It wasn’t organized whatsoever. It looked like he’d used the first several pages to practice writing, and after that begun to jot down words and phrases at random… along with their translations, often followed by question marks and speculation, as if he didn’t already understand… 

Oh.

Orcish wasn’t his first language -- _Common_ was. 

He must have been raised separate from other orcs. 

Of _course_ he was, the internment camps didn’t give their prisoners reading material, but… how? Had someone been _preparing him_ to become Warchief? No, that made no sense, why would any human go to all that trouble to hide an orcish baby from patrolling soldiers in the middle of a country that would just as soon see it dead as imprisoned? And to _feed_ an orcish child the sheer amount he must have needed to grow so large, one would need the resources of a noble, which… 

Wait. 

_Durnholde._

A sinking feeling took hold of her.

_For many years I received more cruel touches than kind._

Blackmoore. 

Even in Dalaran, it had been everyone’s favorite gossip for weeks -- the testimonies of soldiers and servants who survived Durnholde, painting a picture of a tragic scandal: the son of a traitor, unjustly appointed to oversee the internment camp system, drowning his inadequacies in drink, abusing his servants… and making money under the table via brutal orc-versus-orc gladiatorial matches. 

Right up until his end. 

_Oh, Thrall…_

So many orcs had been enslaved in the camps, spared from slaughter only for the value of their labor… but at least they hadn’t been forced to fight and kill their own. For _years --_ and to win _booze-money_ for a man who was already abusive to his _own_ species… 

And _still_ Thrall came to Theramore’s aid, treated Jaina as his equal, _i_ _nvited_ Theramore to the Horde. 

Her heart ached for him -- and burned with _rage_ at Blackmoore, so fiercely that it shocked her. 

She hadn’t felt this way since… 

Tides, since _Kel’thuzad._

Thrall had already avenged himself, Blackmoore was already dead… and yet she wished he _wasn’t,_ just so she could put an ice lance right through his pickled guts.

She _hated_ him.

It scared her. 

But eventually the feeling waned, and her curiosity waxed, and her eyes flicked back to the shelf. 

Which was organized -- not that she expected Thrall to be _disorganized,_ necessarily, just… well, she had, hadn’t she? 

It seemed her mind sorted bone-blossom thrones and neat little libraries into two separate categories. 

What other ways would the Warchief surprise her? 

The shelf, though -- books in Common, sorted alphabetically, then his studies of Urukath, and then various scrolls sorted by the color of their leather cases. 

And Thrall has apologized for not being able to find a coat stand, and leaving an armor rack for her instead. 

He’d personally seen to the furnishings -- so were these just the texts he kept here, or did he put them here for her visit? 

Did he mean for her to find this journal? For her to know this about him? 

Was this... easier for him than talking about it? 

She suddenly and very strongly wanted to hug him until her arms gave out, armored or not. 

...preferably not, though. 

Needless to say, when a knock on her door jolted Jaina awake, the groan she released was _very_ unladylike.

“Ugh...” It took considerable effort to sit up. Several books tumbled off of her. “One minute!” 

Fuck, her eyes were dry. 

She rolled off the furs and staggered to her feet, levitating the books back onto the shelves, snatching the trousers out of her sea chest-- “What is it, Pained?”

“A friend of yours, My Lady.” 

Thrall? 

“And which friend might that be?”

“Lady Frostfire,” Called a smoky voice, “I hope you rest well.” 

Ngashk. 

_Fuck._

Several frantic minutes later, Jaina straightened her jacket, corrected her posture, and opened the door -- to find herself face to mercifully-covered chest with the warrior. 

Diplomacy with the Horde was going to involve a _lot_ of looking up.

“Good morning, Packleader.” 

“Rog.” _And you._ Ngashk looked her up and down, and smiled approvingly. “New clothes. Look strong.” 

“Oh! Thank you, I… you as well.” 

The warrior was back in full regalia. Blunt crescents of steel curved over her shoulders, rowed with thick spikes and padded by red leather and brown fur, such that the claws of the beast she’d taken it from draped over her her chest. Chains ran back and forth between the pauldrons, across her breastplate -- four wide, battle-scarred scales layered over one another, pointing down to a fur-lined metal belt, from which hung a skirt of steel-plated leather strips. More spikes protruded from her kneeguards -- and from the chains that wrapped her cuisses, greaves, and vambraces. 

Much of the dark grey steel was scratched and weathered, and there were a dozen small dents -- nothing that would compromise the armor’s integrity, just… 

_Lok’tar-amgún._ Victory-bruises. 

The polar opposite of human military sensibility. 

Quite a lot to take in, first thing in the morning.

“Zaúg, um-- ag’háiarv... táragh-og amrúz,” Jaina strung together. 

_Happy me-it-makes to see you healed._

“Warchief is good healer.” 

“He… healed you himself?” 

“He heals Packleaders when can. When we give report.” 

Jaina’s heart swelled. He’d been raised a gladiator and was _still_ more noble than half the actual nobility she’d met. 

... Just like Lady Windrunner had been. 

Just like Antonidas had been. 

Just like Arthas had… _seemed,_ and now all of them were-- 

_Later, Jaina, think about it_ **_later._ **

She schooled her expression. Smiled politely.

“Well then,” She said, “I’m glad he was able to, this time.” 

Ngashk sort of… rumble-growled her agreement. 

Jaina found herself smiling effortlessly. “What is it you need, Packleader?” 

Ngashk stepped back and aside, nodding down the tunnel. “I take you to Warchief.” 

“Please do.”

*****

The embassy was being built in the Valley of Strength. Thrall said nothing about the process of choosing that location over others, but the way he _named_ the location left Jaina thinking it had been tense. 

She certainly agreed with the symbolism of strength through understanding (and perhaps, in time, unity), but that could be only one of many reasons Thrall must have weighed before deciding.

Less trustful orcs surely must have objected to letting humans and elves live among so many civilians. But to house an embassy in the military district would be a powder keg, and to house it in the Valley of Honor would both distance them from the people they needed to endear themselves to _and_ put them under heavier Kor’kron watch, just by proximity to Grommash Hold. 

Jaina and her ambassadors followed Thrall south out of the Valley of Wisdom, through a narrow stretch of canyon she’d only glimpsed before, and around the back of the Valley of Strength until they reached its western wall. 

They saw the laborers first-- a team of Tauren around a kodo-driven cart, heaving the huge stone blocks it carried into a sling on the end of a bamboo crane. At a shout from the taskmasters, the largest orc Jaina had ever seen threw his entire body into cranking its great iron winch. Creaking and grinding, the crane lifted each stone just enough to clear the rails of the cart and lowered them into a wide, circular pit dug flush against the canyon wall, a dozen yards across. Within it worked even more laborers, slathering the blocks already there with mortar and helping guide the new ones into position. Piles of lumber sat waiting to be used. 

Thrall summoned the taskmaster, who began explaining the embassy’s layout-to-be. Jaina was more interested in the people building it. 

The man at the winch, he… he looked like Rexxar. His sheer size, his skin tan rather than green, even the reddish-brown of his tattoos--

“Mok’nathal,” Thrall said, quietly enough for only her to hear (well, her and the elves). “Half ogre.”

What must have father's final moments been like, facing down a giant like that? 

_“Golgónnashar!”_

They turned. 

Jogging down the northwestern ridge came a lanky trollish man clad in leather-and-bamboo armor, the horde symbol painted on his chest.

“Kauthú kag’tago!” 

_Report…_ something _’gate._ From his angle of approach, Jaina suspected it was the rear one, which connected the Valley of Honor to Azshara, which was home to both orcs and night elves, so--

“Kwa,” Thrall beckoned, and stooped so that the man could lean close and speak without being overheard. 

Then he was backing away, and saluting ere he jogged off again. 

For a moment the Warchief watched him go. Then he turned to Jaina, with a bemused look on his face. 

“It seems that…” He paused, considered-- “...an interesting coincidence awaits our attention.”

 _Our…?_ Jaina glanced to her entourage. 

“Kronazuk,” Said Thrall. _Packleader._

Ngashk struck her breastplate. “Lok’regar.” 

“Goa cha’truugh rovnuud, yashk’egh ak’lohngur.” 

Fuck, that fusion of morphemes again-- the only word she caught from the first part was _after,_ and then… something _to the Hold._

She turned to Brother Karman, the lone paladin among her volunteers. As both a voice for peace and an experienced soldier, it was he that she had appointed her second in command for this visit. 

He bowed. “I will look after them, Milady.” 

*****

“A _Sentinel?”_ Jaina glanced at Pained. The elf’s expression was inscrutable.

“By her vestments, yes.” Thrall was doing his best not to outpace them, though he clearly wished to move faster. “She claims to have been honorably discharged from the Kal’dorei army.” 

Up the slope before them, between the curved bulk of the Arena and the cagelike exterior of the Hunter’s Hall, the red rock converged into a narrow canyon that wound out of sight. 

“Did she state her purpose?” 

“No. But her human companion says they are traveling to Theramore.” 

Her human...? 

Jaina frowned. She had no record of any of her people leaving for night elf territory -- and if Theramore was their goal, the Barrens were a _much_ more direct route, and coming to Orgrimmar was risky, to say the least.

Not to mention the timing.

Nestled in the shadow of the Arena was a much smaller but no less spiky guard house, flanked by palm trees, between which several warriors slept in hammocks. 

Beside the hide-draped doorway stood an orcish man considerably smaller than Thrall, but more fearsome. Obviously this impression was in part because Jaina _knew_ Thrall, trusted him, and enjoyed his company too much to be frightened of him anymore… but the wolf head covering the soldier’s face was definitely also a factor. It was pulled down so far that his tusks looked like they could have belonged to the beast. Only his teeth, jaw, and braided red beard were visible. 

How did he _see_ under there?

“Golgónnashar.” He thumped his chest. 

“Nazgrel. Khap’egh?” _Inside’they(are)?_

But what did _nazgrel_ mean?

“Ko. Ukkád ro trug.” _Yes. Unarmed and…_

Thrall grunted. “Amkúd?” 

Jaina had no idea what that meant.

“Akh, Golgónnashar.” _No, Warchief._

Thrall strode forward, and ducked inside, and Jaina faltered. If he’d been a human noble, he would have held the door --or leather flaps, anyway-- open for her. She’d _expected_ him to, which was unreasonable. 

_A Warchief is not a king…_ and she was letting her expectations be colored by the princes she’d known. 

Both of whom had been courting her.

Insufficient sample size. 

She followed him into the slatted shadow of the guardhouse, past racks of weapons and chambers full of sleeping-furs and into the dirt-floored back room, where they found the odd pair sitting on supply crates. 

“Lady Proudmoore!” The human woman stood, eyes bright, one fist planted on her hip— and the tattooed stump of her other arm raised as if to do the same with her long-lost right hand. “Light be praised -- no disrespect to our esteemed allies, of course! It’s just a bit more… hard and _spiky_ than Darnassus, that’s all.” 

Jaina blinked. She’d been to _Darnassus?_

She looked the woman up and down-- well-worn boots, forest-green leggings, several belts laden with pouches and flasks and empty sheaths, an elk-skin vest, Kal’dorei tattoos winding up her stump, wavy black hair braided to match the purple tresses of her companion… 

“How long _were_ you in Darnassus, Miss…?” 

“Oh! Where are my manners?” She bowed, rather than curtsied-- “Miller, Milady. Mayana Miller. And this here’s Elise. Starseeker.” 

“Ishnu-alah.” The night elf saluted in the manner of her people -- upper arm straight out, fist to the upper corner of her chest. She stood like a soldier, chin up and shoulders back, and wore the exquisitely tooled leather armor of Tyrande’s Sentinel Army, brown against the rich purples of her skin and hair.

“Miss Miller...” Jaina glanced between the two of them… and then to her bodyguard, to whom she murmured: “Pained, would you mind—?” 

“Not at all.” Pained stepped forward, and began speaking to the (supposedly) _ex_ -sentinel in fluid, soothing Darnassian. 

Jaina turned back to Mayana-- and had the questions on her tongue pre-empted by: “About three and a half years, Milady. My stay in the big tree, I mean.” 

Oh. 

_Oh._

“Since Hyjal,” Said Jaina. 

Mayana’s smile waned, just a bit. “Yes. Well, since a week or two _after_ Hyjal, t’be precise about it. Kal’dorei don’t much care for portals -- _which,_ matter of fact--” 

Jaina help up a placating hand. “Miss Miller, this is fascinating, but I have questions that need answering.” 

She hesitated. Bowed her head. “Of course, Milady.” 

Jaina quickly studied her features -- tan and freckled in the way only smallfolk really got, her left shoulder and arm stronger than that of any noblewoman… 

“After the Battle you left with the Sentinels, rather than our forces?” 

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“Well…” She started stroking her braid nervously. “Alright, this sounded a lot _less_ like ‘I-swear-I’m-not-a-deserter’ in my head.”

“I’m not accusing you of anything, Miss Miller — I just want to understand.”

“Just Mayana is fine, Milady. Miss Miller was my mum, Light be with her.” 

“Just as Lady Proudmoore was mine,” Said Jaina. “Before she sent an invasion force to Theramore.”

“Oh.” Mayana’s eyes widened, and her hand stilled on her braid. “That’s— I’m so sorry, Milady.”

“You need not be. You didn’t know.”

“Right, I just— right. What should I call you, then?”

Jaina did not let her gaze stray toward Thrall, who stood behind her. “Lady Frostfire has been suggested. I rather like it.” 

Mayana’s eyes lit up. “Oooh that’s _good_. Proper warrior-name, that!”

Jaina suppressed a smile, wondering after the woman’s age. She’d thought her at least twenty-five, but so much time in the sun oft made people look older than they were. “I think so too. You were saying?” 

“Yes. Right.” Mayana jerked her hand away from her braid, gripped the first of several belts— “I’m not a soldier, Milady. Never 'ave been -- Hyjal was the first time I even held a proper sword! You ever try to kill a wight with a hayfork? S’bloody _difficult.”_

“You were with the volunteer forces, then?" 

“Yes Ma'am. Had to give the Legion what-for, you know? For Lordaeron.” Her expression dimmed, and she looked away. “Not that I was very effective at it. Would’ve been a demon’s dinner if it weren’t for Elise and her lot.” Mayana cast a soft glance at her companion, and smiled timidly. “Which, like… bunch of wild women, armed t’the teeth, riding giant cats, _and_ takin’ orders from no man? S’right inspiring.” 

Something rose up in Jaina then, sudden and bright, and she saw the woman anew -- the clothes most humans would find masculine, the matching braids, the fond looks… 

Hopeful suspicion. That's what it was -- and Jaina couldn't resist it. 

So she leaned a bit closer, smiled conspiratorially, and said:

“Rather easy on the eyes, too.” 

Mayana blinked, as if confused, and then her eyes went wide, and Jaina’s heart nearly stopped and _Oh Tides I misread everything—_

And then Mayana grinned like she’d won a king’s fortune. “Why Lady Frostfire… I’m sure I don’t know _what_ you mean.” 

She winked. 

That bright feeling crested into relief, warm and urging Jaina to connect, to make a friend of this woman… 

But she needed answers. 

So she stood up straight again, and reigned in her expression —though not all the way. “So you’ve spent the last three years in night elf territory?”

“Give or take, yeah.” 

“Why have you returned now?” 

_Why today?_

“If I may?” Elise’s voice was soft, but determined, her accent thick. 

Pained stepped aside, leaving a clear line-of-sight between Starseeker and Jaina.

“Mayana tells me of the east.” She glanced at the woman, who subtly nodded -- and Elise’s long, batlike ears eased down from where they'd been sticking straight up almost flat against her head. “She tells me of the… _old_ Horde. The Alliance. The Scourge. And all this the story of peoples that the Kal’dorei did not know existed until you came to Kalimdor. The world, it seems, has changed more in the last few decades than… in the last few millennia. I want to see it. As much of it as I can.”

“The High Priestess gave her leave to do this,” Said Pained, “On the condition that she meet with me first, and confirm both my wellbeing and yours, My Lady.” 

“And..." Jaina glanced between the two. "You came to Orgrimmar, rather than traveling through the Barrens?”

Elise’s luminous gaze returned to Mayana, who shrugged. “Lot of ways to get eaten in the Barrens, Milady.” 

Elise’s ears twitched.

“It’s a long walk, too, and with so little shelter. We figured we’d be better going by boat, and well… the only ones doing much sailing ‘round here are orcs.”

A likely story. But not the _only_ likely story.

“Warchief,” Said Jaina, “Guras Khwáurun zalkh’ang?” _Knew the Horde of my visit?_

“Ghashu dolaz’cha.” _Them(I)told youcome’will._ “Zur dun Kor’kron, shomagil-ang, tenagh-asruun…”

_But except (for the) Heart’pack, advisors-mine, (and the) ambassadors-volunteered…_

“Ghashu’akh _osur.”_

_I did not tell them **when.** _

Knowing what she now did of Mayana, a smile came naturally. Jaina just hoped the suspicion didn’t show in her eyes. 

Fuck, she didn’t know how to say _High Priestess_ in Urukath - if the language even _had_ such a word. 

“Amau’khulu… maza _mogun_ .” _Moon’chief… years_ **_many_ ** _._ Jaina winced at her own words. “Khe’agho… gao’ars- _akh_ ve’and... _” If she wanted for us_ **_not_ ** _to know she listens…_

“Os ao’ákh,” Thrall finished. 

_Then we would not._

A message, then. But… why? Thrall had mentioned in his letters that things were tense in Ashenvale, so… a warning? 

And Elise -- was she just the messenger, or a spy herself? 

“Mayana,” She said. 

“Milady?” 

“Now that Miss Starseeker has fulfilled her obligation, where do you intend to go next?” 

“Well, I’ve seen her stompin’ grounds. I was… hoping t’show her ‘round Theramore a bit.” 

Hm. 

...it couldn’t be. It would be _much_ too obvious -- Elise wouldn’t make a very good spy with Jaina watching her for any suspicious behavior. 

Unless that was exactly what Tyrande _wanted_ her to think. Elise herself could easily be ten times Jaina’s age, her natural elven stealth augmented by experience, fully capable of performing such a task even while under close watch… 

_Or_ this could be an opportunity. An opportunity to show Tyrande the bridges they were building. Perhaps even entice her into an actual, formal alliance. 

“Very well,” She decided. “In two days, when I return to Theramore, you may both accompany me. Until then, however, you _are_ in the Warchief’s city. Your lodgings are his decision.” 

Thrall looked very imposing, when he was thinking. Jaina felt like she should be much more intimidated than she actually was. 

*****

‘Nazgrel,’ as it turned out, was wolf-head’s given name. Jaina could not see his face, but his words were terse, clipped, as if it deeply irritated him to be introduced to her. 

Beside him, Saurfang rose from a carven stool, and gave a much more heartfelt salute.“Runaz-nukh.” 

“High Overlord.” She returned the gesture… and then turned to Rokhan. 

“Lady Frost-fiyah.” He didn’t so much stand as he did unfold his lanky form from its crouch, until he stood taller than Saurfang. 

Still shorter than Thrall, though. 

When he next spoke it was in the syllabic melodies of Zandali -- and beside him, Tsaadu translated:

“It be good t’see ya under less grim circumstances, Lady.” 

Rokhan paused, and murmured a few words to her. 

“Chieftain,” She corrected. 

“And you, brave knight,” Said Jaina.

Rokhan’s lips twitched into a tusk-stretched smirk at the translation. Then he bowed his head, just slightly, and his words were interpreted to: “But though less grim, no less dire, it seems.”

Jaina sighed, and took her seat, fighting back the memories. “No. No less dire.” 

“Let us begin, then.” Thrall lowered himself into his throne. “As High Overlord, Saurfang commands the Kor’kron -- our most deadly warriors, charged with protecting me, my advisors, and the elders of our people. Nazgrel oversees the security of Orgrimmar. And Rokhan is here on behalf of Chieftain Vol’jin.”

The places most in danger from another Alliance invasion attempt. 

Jaina knit her fingers together in her lap. “Very well. What do you all know?” 

“I have shown them the copy you sent of King Wrynn’s decree,” Said Thrall. “As well as your account of his cowardly attack on your person.” 

He paused, so that Saurfang could translate for Nazgrel, and Tsaadu for Rokhan. Even knowing how confusing it might get if she tried to have this meeting in Urukath, Jaina still felt like she was _making_ them speak common. Like she was imposing. Three out of the five people before her had spent almost twenty years hearing this language from their jailers, their _slave-masters…_

“What we _wish_ to know,” Said the Warchief, “Is whatever you can tell us about him. Wrynn.” 

“Right. He…” She looked down at her hands. “Varian was but a child when the Old Horde sacked Stormwind. He saw his home burn, saw his father murdered… allegedly by an orcish assassin.” 

Saurfang’s grizzled countenance deepened, the firelight casting deep shadows along the crags of his face. 

Nazgrel bared his teeth a little, the faintest warning of a growl issuing from between his fangs. 

Then Thrall huffed, deep and loud… and the security chief closed his mouth. 

“He barely escaped with his life. His mother did not. From there he fled to Lordaeron, where he witnessed the creation of the Alliance -- indeed, his story in large part compelled the other nobles to set aside their differences and band together.” 

She faltered, then. These were the heroes of her childhood, the exile kings and knights in shining armor… 

And here she was relating it all as part of a strategy meeting to people those ‘heroes’ would see massacred, if they could. 

“By the time of the internment camps,” She forced out, “Stormwind had been somewhat rebuilt. It was then he was crowned king. Soon he took a queen, who bore him an heir. A _male_ heir.” 

Nazgrel scoffed.

“Ko,” Said Jaina. “I will admit to admiring the Horde, for not being so obsessed with such things... but you must understand that human nobility _is._ A human king will always value a son more than a daughter.” 

Saurfang translated. 

Nazgrel grunted in a way that was both acquiescent and dismissive. Not for the first time, Jaina was intrigued by how much orcs could express nonverbally.

“This child," She went on, "He named Anduin, after Anduin Lothar -- the Supreme Commander of the Alliance, who was slain by Orgrim Doomhammer at Blackrock Spire.” 

When Saurfang and Tsaadu’s words faded, a heavy silence hung over the room. Jaina forged on:

“Then, eight years ago, a dispute between the stonemasons and nobles of Stormwind erupted into riots… and during one such riot, Tiffin --Varian’s queen-- was struck by a stone, and killed.” 

Saurfang frowned. “Riots?” 

“Yes, the stonemasons felt they were not being properly compensated for their labor.” 

“No,” Said the High Overlord, “What is a riot?” 

Oh. 

“It’s…” She considered that. “When a large group of people express their displeasure through violent disorder.”

Saurfang only frowned deeper. “Why?” 

“Because… well, usually in protest of something their ruler has done.” 

“You’re telling me they _murdered their chieftain’s mate_ because they were _displeased_ with his leadership?”

“Well no, it was an _accident_ , but--” 

“I do not understand. Have humans nothing like Mak’gora? Can you not resolve such things through honorable combat?” 

“Well… no. Not one-on-one duels, at least.” 

Saurfang crossed his arms, perplexed. “And they call _us_ uncivilized.” 

“These masons,” Said Thrall, shooting a warning glance at Saurfang, “What became of them? How did King Wrynn deal with them?” 

“Ruthlessly. Many were executed, while many more fled the capital, his soldiers hot on their trail.” 

Thrall sat back in his throne, expression grim. “Very well. You’ve told us his history -- what of his power? What do we face, should he try again?” 

The knot returned to Jaina’s belly. She took a steadying breath. _“High King of the Alliance,_ his missive read. I can only assume that with Lordaeron, Quel’thalas, and Dalaran destroyed, Stormwind has become the center of the…” She trailed off. 

Was that--?

Thrall frowned. “Lady Frostfire?” 

“Sorry, I--” She reached into her jacket pocket, closed her fingers around the suddenly cold surface of her portable scrying orb -- and her heart _thudded_ in her chest. 

She’d told Kristoff only to contact her for emergencies. 

“My apologies, Warchief--” She stood, grasped her staff-- “It seems there is an urgent matter to which I must attend, do you mind--”

“We do not,” He said. “You have already given us much to discuss. Please, do what you must. Worst case scenario, we finish this via letter." 

With a quick, grateful look, Jaina swept out of the throne room, into the hall, and pulled the orb from her pocket. The torchlight played strangely over its polished surface and glittered in its violet depths.

With her free hand, Jaina palmed her right vambrace and pushed the mana within her out, so that it ran like galvanic force along the rune-etched focusing rings within the armor and down, flares of arcane zapping in and out of existence-- 

A pale glow bloomed within the orb, swirling and waxing, and in an instant she was looking upon the angular visage of her chamberlain.

“My Lady Proudmoore!” 

Jaina forced down her discomfort at that, and her irritation at him for still using the name even _after_ she’d talked to him about it--

“I just stepped out of a very important meeting, Kristoff. What is it?”

“The prisoners, Ma’am, the soldiers we captured -- they’re _gone.”_

Ah. 

Fuck. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Me, reading out loud: “The Lich King spread his power too far, and too thin.”  
> My gf, who knows little about Warcraft and a lot about Adventure Time: “Wait, did she… 'cast the Lich King down?'”  
> Me: “His control slipped. The Dark Lady broke free, and slew his lieutenants. Freed the rest of us.”  
> Gf: “Also… SHE FOUGHT A BEAARR!!” 
> 
> (https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=auQCYHbuaQY) 
> 
> Serious notes:  
> Rexxar was the one who dealt the killing blow to Daelin Proudmoore.  
> Rokhan and Jaina worked together to try and prevent the situation from going to shit, and Rokhan helped Rexxar storm Theramore.
> 
> Elise Starseeker is actually a Hearthstone character, but gives off such lesbionic vibes that I just had to squeeze her in somewhere. Like... a better-dressed night elf version of Indiana Jones, basically. She and Mayana will actually be really important.


	7. Bridges

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Theramore does its best to welcome the ambassadors.  
> Thrall and Jaina continue to be penpals.  
> Jaina learns some things about herself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As this fic progresses through the (altered) events of WoW proper + expansions it will involve a lot of side OCs, both in single appearances and ongoing. If you've got a Warcraft OC you'd like to see featured, just describe them in the comments & I'll do my best to work them in!

They needed a new flag. 

In the collective psyche of Theramore, both the lion of Stormwind and the anchor of Kul Tiras were stained with blood and soot. Come winter, hundreds of tabards and banners would be burned for warmth. Someone had made an off-hand comment about using theirs as a washcloth. Or maybe it was a dishrag. One of the two. 

Jaina sat back with a sigh, spiked tea in hand and a half dozen sketches on her desk -- the product of Elise Starseeker standing by with charcoal and parchment whilst Jaina discussed the flag issue with her advisors.

Thus far, they had:

\- A sapling sprouting from a pile of skulls (inspiring, but also ambiguously grim)

\- The symbol of Lordaeron before a rising sun (also inspiring, but it didn’t represent everyone) 

\- Crossed swords with five stars around them -- one for each kingdom from which the people hailed (represented everyone, but was otherwise too basic)

\- The outline of the island with an open hand on it, representing peace (just… didn’t do it for her) 

Perhaps she’d call for more submissions. 

Jaina’s eyes strayed to the red scroll case lying unopened at the edge of her desk. 

She’d been saving it for last, using it as incentive to get through all the rest of her paperwork… but there was so much of it. 

_No._

She had work to do. Decisions to make. Plans to come up with. Risks to assess. 

Elise, for example.

Elise Starseeker -- former Sentinel, gifted illustrator, aspiring explorer, possibly romantically involved with Mayana Miller, _definitely_ sexually involved with Mayana Miller, and probably with several other women by the end of the month. She'd been a pleasant surprise, thus far, as had her maybe-lover. They could often be found at the inn, describing Darnassus and recounting adventures both lived and historical to an eager audience.

The most nefarious thing they’d done thus far was attempt to seduce a married woman -- which had led to a rather awkward conversation for Jaina, but at least it wasn’t espionage. 

Mayana… she reminded Jaina of herself, in some ways. The relentless curiosity, the relentless interest in pretty women… 

Alright, so one way. Tides, if Jaina had recognized how much of her jealousy _wasn’t_ jealousy when she was still in Dalaran… 

Oh. 

Oh wow. 

So _that_ was why Archmage Modera had been so fascinating. 

To say nothing of Lady Windrunner. 

Who she had been trying _so hard_ to not think about. 

Fuck. 

It was probably a moot point anyway — even if she’d known back then, she never could have been so… _unabashed_ about it. So outgoing. 

Her eyes strayed to the scroll case again. 

She took another gulp of tea, and sighed as its warmth spread through her. 

Theramore might be tearing and burning its Kul Tiran flags, but the few barrels of Tradewinds whiskey they had left were treated like liquid gold.

She found herself thankful for that. One last taste of home. 

A deep, vindictive part of her burned with the urge to toss it. She didn’t. There was no excuse for wastefulness, in Theramore. It had become a pillar of their culture, actually. No one dared toss anything edible or drinkable, and those that did got the proverbial black mark on their record. Every so often there was a fight about it. 

Knuckles rapped the open door of her study. 

“Ah, Kristoff.” Jaina returned he sketches to the leather folio Mayana had delivered them in. 

“My Lady.” He gave a shallow bow, and strode forth into the room. “I’m pleased to report that enough tents have been readied to accommodate those currently… _occupying_ the throne room.” 

She frowned. “What? Why?”

“So that you may regain the use of it, My Lady.” 

“That’s not… my intent is to house them there until their homes are repaired -- I’m not going to put them in _tents_ just so I can sit on the throne again.”

“With all due respect, Lady Proudmoore, it is important that the people _see_ you on the throne.” 

“And they will,” She said, “ _After_ the east side is rebuilt.” 

And before he could argue further, she nodded to the scroll in his hand. “Is that the latest report?”

His hawkish features tightened, just slightly. “Yes, Ma’am.”

“Thank you.” She took the scroll when offered. “That will be all.” 

Only once he’d left did Jaina break the wax seal (a yet-to-be-replaced-anchor-symbol pressed into it) and unroll the report… and found herself grateful for Antonidas’ chronic use of autonomous quills -- it had trained her to read the illegible, and though General Lorena had thus far taken to her new rank remarkably well, but her handwriting left something to be desired. 

As did the situation about which she was writing. 

Jaina reached for her mug again. 

One hundred and sixty. That was the low estimate, now. One hundred and sixty deserters and invaders now prowled Dustwallow and the Southern Barrens, ambushing travelers and raiding villages. The City Guard had thus far arrested fifty individuals on suspicion of treason and convicted nineteen. Supply thefts had all but stopped... but they simply didn’t have the numbers to secure the city, the coastline, the main roads, _and_ all the potential hideaways within the marsh. 

So Jaina had been forced to allow several Horde warbands into her territory to do it for them. 

It was not her most popular decision to date. 

Orcs roaming the countryside brought back dark memories for nearly everyone, regardless of necessity... and if Greyshield and his men killed any more innocents, Thrall would be forced to send legions. 

Not even maintaining a presence at Northwatch Hold could put the people at ease, now. Theramore had a population of ten thousand, and even with the recent recruitment push, only five hundred of those people served in the City Guard

The Horde numbered at _least_ a million, and at least a third of that million were seasoned fighters. 

This just wasn’t _sustainable._

She flipped open the ‘potential flag’ folder again. Flipped through it. 

Perhaps the sapling and the five stars…? 

Ugh. 

She closed it again, snatched up the scroll case, and slid out Thrall’s latest letter. 

And smiled to herself. 

Even his letters were huge. Obviously he _needed_ more parchment due to the size of his hands, but it was still… a personal touch, she supposed. 

_Lady Frostfire,_

_I pray this letter finds you well. I myself am troubled by our mutual problem, by the underlying tensions it represents, and by what it awakens… both in my people, and, I must admit, in myself. I write this not as a threat, but as assurance of my personal investment in crushing these brigands._

_In other news, I have found myself delighted that Buri elected to remain in Orgrimmar. What he perhaps lacks in tact, he makes up for ten times over in expertise. Though the geology (a word I have only just learned yesterday!) of Durotar and the character of its elemental spirits differ greatly from those of Khaz Modan, with Buri’s counsel my shamans have already begun sculpting new living spaces into the canyons of Orgrimmar._

_The timing of this is fortuitous -- every month, more orcs arrive from the East (I must thank you again for your rescue of the ship that nearly sank in your waters, and your compassionate handling of its crew). The more homes we can sculpt for them, the less lumber we need from Azshara and Ashenvale. It is my hope that this may help diminish tensions between the Horde and the Kal’dorei._

_But I write this letter for more pressing reasons -- so_ _that you might gain insight into the union of clans and tribes which you may soon be joining, and to ensure that you fully understand what you will be agreeing to, should you so choose._

_So, firstly:_

_I find my concerns mirroring your own, in some ways._

_When you told me you called for a vote after the siege, I was surprised -- for I was unaware that was something humans did._

_Until now, I have thought of it as ‘the Tauren method.’_

_In orcish culture, the position of chieftain is hereditary -- Warchief Blackhand was the first leader chosen by vote in many centuries (though I am sure Gul’dan had a hand in the outcome), and Orgrim took the role from him via Mak’gora._

_According to Cairne, however, the Tauren have been choosing their chieftains by popular vote for many thousands of years._

_In some tribes, he says, it is only the elders that vote -- not unlike this Council of Six you have mentioned. In other tribes, every adult is part of the decision._

_The new Horde cast their votes by choosing to follow me, chose to put all the decisions that will shape our future in my hands. Before making many of those decisions, I try to hear the hopes and needs of those they will effect… but welcoming Theramore into the Horde will be_ _by far_ _the most controversial decision of my reign -- and, I fear, the most divisive._

_If I were to gather my people before Grommash Hold this very day and simply decree this union, reactions would vary._

_Some would perceive this as a tacit acknowledgement, on your part, of orcish superiority. They would be pleased, and even welcoming in their own way._

_Many would not be, but would accept my decision regardless because I am Warchief._

_Others would make their displeasure known… and others yet would make it felt. Within the week I would be facing Mak’gora, and by the old ways or the new… that would depend on the challenger. I would probably win — but I will not gamble the future of the Horde on probably. _

_As Saurfang so_ _tactfully_ _stated, Mak’gora allows us to challenge unworthy leaders without mass bloodshed… but it can also allow the unworthy to seize power. The strongest of body is not necessarily the strongest of heart or mind. The most skilled warrior is not necessarily a competent leader or diplomat._

_So, rather than risk such a person endangering our future, I have given every chieftain of the Horde a month to consult with their people._

_By the new moon, we will know… and hopefully I can stop asking you to burn these letters after reading them._

_Secondly:_

_To be accepted into the Horde, one must swear fealty to its Warchief._

Oh. 

Hm. 

Jaina slid the letter over to make room for another parchment. As she read the words that followed, the only sound in her study was the scratching of a quill. 

By the time she reached: _Aka’magosh, Golgonnashar Thrall,_ she had a full page of notes… and a belly full of anxiety. 

Outside, the bell chimed twelve noon. 

It was time. 

Jaina folded the page of notes and slid it into her vest pocket. The letter she burned with a snap of her fingers.

Then she rose, pulled on her jacket, and picked up her staff.

*****

In the end, they had built the embassy beside the inn, equidistant from Jaina’s tower and the Citadel (Jaina had the ‘Foothold’ part of the name officially dropped). 

Finished just the day before, the new building resembled a squat tower, built round like orcish dwellings to avoid evoking the blockish architecture of the internment camps. It was two stories tall, roofed with red shingles, and ventilated by slit windows too narrow for any would-be assassins to slip through.

Jaina pulled her attention away from it and descended the steps of her tower, Pained close behind. Soldiers marched into formation around her, ready for anything the deserters might have planned.

Down the slope before them, more guards stood posted around the perimeter of the city square, behind whom gathered many hundreds of citizens, eager to lay eyes on their new neighbors. At the center of the square, Ysuria and Tervosh moved in what must have seemed a strange dance to the untrained eye -- they moved in synchrony, chanting as they drew glowing curves and runes with the spelldust-coated ends of their staffs. 

By the time Jaina set foot in the square, a textbook portal pentagram stretched across the cobblestones before her. 

The two mages looked up, awaiting her word -- and Jaina looked to her right, where General Lorena stood at the head of the lane her soldiers had formed leading to the embassy.

A salute. 

Jaina looked back to the mages, and nodded. 

Two staffs rose and fell. Struck stone. A portal split the air. 

For a moment there was only the sound of gulls calling, and the strange, distorted fizzling of the spell. 

Then two Kor’kron stepped through, fully armored, carrying between them a large wooden chest. One was older, male, bald and bearded, with one broken tusk. 

The other was Ngashk. 

Behind them came Wildcaller Olom, the charms hanging from his horns swaying in the breeze, followed by a handful of other Tauren. 

Behind _them_ came another pair of Kor’kron, who unlike Ngashk and her comrade stepped aside to flank the next through the portal. Farseer Yaghna stepped through, with young Ariok on her arm to keep her steady. A murmur rippled through the crowd -- she was probably the only elderly orc most of them had ever seen, and by dint of her age, the shortest.

Another pair of Kor’kron -- and then Tsaadu and her Darkspear, a half-dozen of them, some heavily tattooed as she was, some not. 

More warriors followed them through -- two, four, six, eight…

She’d agreed to this, of course. Thrall would never have allowed such venerated elders to stay in Theramore without ample guard… but already, Jaina could see wariness and discomfort in the crowd. 

Ngashk and her comrade stopped a stone’s throw in front of her, set down the chest, and stepped aside. Olom, Yaghna, Ariok and Tsaadu moved to the head of the group. 

Jaina stepped forward, away from her own armored escort, and forced a smile she prayed didn’t look as nervous as she felt.

“Esteemed ambassadors of the Horde! You honor us with your presence. Welcome to Theramore.” 

Tsaadu translated her words into Urukath -- and then Farseer Yaghna’s, into Common. “And hail to you, Lady Frostfire -- Defender of Peace, Bane of Demons, Ruler of Theramore.”

 _“HAIL!”_ The Kor’kron struck their fist to their breastplates… and then raised their right hands to their foreheads in a human salute. 

“We are honored by this opportunity you have made, and to be welcomed into your mighty city. I pray that this exchange will be fruitful.” 

“As do I,” Said Jaina, and then to their audience, rather pointedly: “As do we all.”

On cue, Theramore’s ambassadors came forth from behind her, followed by a dozen guards of their own, and one by one greeting their counterparts… which was quite the sight. Height differences aside, some chose to bow --a safe choice, the gesture present in many cultures-- while others offered hands to shake. Curiously enough, there was no hesitation from either group, even when confronted with gestures foreign to them. 

Jaina relaxed a bit. 

Everyone was well-prepared. 

Courtesies taken care of, Theramore’s ambassadors marched through the portal, each of them flanked by guards. 

With a bright flare and a distorted sucking noise, the portal shrank to a pinprick and winked out of existence. 

“If you will follow me,” Jaina said, “The embassy is just--”

_“Die, monsters!”_

Something small and dark arced over the crowd and struck hard on the cobblestones, rolling towards the ambassadors, tail sparkling-- 

No. 

_Fuse._

With a frantic incantation, Jaina thrust her staff forward like a spear, channeling mana through it-- 

A bright violet bubble flared into existence around the bomb. 

“My Lady--!” 

Pained, what-?

It exploded, and the shield held -- but already several more rolled into the square, fuses sparking-- 

A portal opened under one, matching the rings of light around Ysuria’s hands, and from far above the city a loud _crack_ rang out. 

And then there was chaos. 

The crowd surged back like a shockwave, away from the square, crying out in panic. Jaina’s guards snapped into formation around her, as did the Kor’kron around their charges. Rings of arcane light glowed around Ysuria’s hands, and two more bombs vanished through portals while Tervosh raised his staff, conjuring shields--

Not fast enough. 

_“Death to the traitor!”_

Someone rushed her. Pained stepped in front of her. 

Jaina reached inside herself. Mana glowed to the surface of her palms and crystallized into frost. She barely registered the words of power flying off her tongue, focusing on aiming the spell, duplicating-- 

A fuse froze. Two. Four. Five-- 

Done. 

The bombs sat inert. 

Three men lay dead before her, blood seeping through their plain clothes.

Several more were rushing the ambassadors, swords drawn-- 

_“_ **_Akhagh-zrash_ ** _!”_ Roared Ngashk. 

_Don’t kill them._

One of the assassins got a little too close to Farseer Yaghna. Ngashk shoulder-checked him so hard he became a man-sized ragdoll, falling limply to the cobblestones. 

Then she squatted, gripped the chest she’d brought, and swung it into the next man. Trade goods exploded out of it. In an instant he lay sprawled before her, surrounded by drinking skins, medicine pouches, bundles of fur, a cloud of red powder… 

The other assassins faltered, and in an instant were riddled with arrows. 

No more came forward. 

A hush fell over the square.

Ngashk looked down at the now-open chest in her hands. Up at the tense humans around her. Then she dropped it, and with a smile, gestured to the mess before her.

“Gifts for people of Theramore! Food, drink, furs, spices, traitor…” 

Jaina sagged with relief. 

The city guard rushed forward with cuffs. 

Jaina blinked forward toward the ambassadors -- and froze as Ngashk bared her teeth reflexively. 

“Ak’harg, Kronazuk.” Jaina held up an empty hand. “I thank you for your restraint.” She nodded toward the now-chained assassins. 

The Packleader didn’t move. Hazel eyes narrowed, mapping her surroundings before fixing once again on Jaina. Behind her the Kor’kron stood tense, hands on the hilts of their swords, axes, and clubs. 

Then, not looking away, she turned her head just enough for her voice to carry back, and grunted: _“Hrag.”_

The warriors relaxed ever so slightly. 

Jaina kept her eyes on their leader. Ngashk straightened up from the ready hunch she’d snapped into, and rolled her head. Something _popped_ in her neck.

“Human honor… different,” She said. 

“Ga’ars,” Jaina told her. _I know._ Then she turned her attention to the Farseer and Wildcaller. “My sincerest apologies, ambassadors--”

“Aakho,” Said Yaghna. 

“Unnecessary,” Tsaadu translated. “We are sure it it will not happen again.” 

Right. 

Jaina supposed she deserved that.

“I will do everything in my power to ensure it does not. With your permission, I would avoid further risk by teleporting you all to the embassy.” She gestured down the road, to where Lorena’s men had formed a strong perimeter around the building. 

Yaghna gripped her staff with both hands and leaned on it, regarding their destination with a look Jaina could not place for a long moment after Tsaadu finished translating.

Then she nodded. 

“You need…” Ngashk’s nose scrunched as she searched for the right words. “You need we get closer?”

“You’re perfect where you are. If your pack is prepared…?” 

The warrior turned to her fellows. _“Lok!”_

Gauntlets struck breastplates. 

As the City Guard busied themselves collecting the scattered gifts, Jaina raised her staff and-- 

“Wait!” 

Jaina tensed -- as did every soldier in the square, turning to look at… 

A child. 

A child of no more than five stood just within the square, hand-in-hand with his father, stopped by City Guards.

As everyone watched, the man kneeled and reached into the bag hanging from his shoulder. Jaina glanced at Ngashk -- and found the same intimidating _stillness_ about her. 

Then the man pulled a flower crown from his bag, and nodded to his son. 

“‘Ee made it, Milady. Fer the, ah… commander, there.” He nodded to Ngashk. 

Jaina took a calming breath. “Let them pass.” 

The guards stood down -- and without hesitation the boy walked forward, all but dragging his father along, focused only on Ngashk… who sank to one knee so as not to tower over him. 

For a moment the child stood before her, still looking up, wide eyes taking in her fearsome form. Then he turned to his father, who handed him the flower crown. 

And Jaina _knew_ those flowers -- they grew in the Marsh, where the boy could never have safely gone without Darkspear medicines fortifying his tiny immune system. 

“Thank you for saving us.”

He held the crown out in his pudgy little hands -- and slowly, carefully, Ngashk reached out and slipped one of her own powerful fingers through it. 

“You…” The father wet his lips, glancing nervously at the other warriors-- “We would be dead without you. Me, Caleb, ‘iz mum and sister -- all of us. You were injured protecting my family. Yer brother-in-arms laid down ‘iz life, Light rest ‘iz soul.”

Ngashk looked pained. And very unsure what to do with the flower crown. 

“We don’t ‘ave much t’give. Just our home. But…” He straightened up, then, wiped his hands on his trousers-- “You’ll always be welcome in it.” 

The warrior’s eyes went wide. 

He held out his hand. “Thank you.”

You could have heard a pin drop. 

Then Ngashk gingerly placed the flower crown atop her crest of braids, rose to her full height, and shook his hand. 

*****

_I have my most loyal soldiers investigating,_ she wrote. _The assassins left alive have yet to reveal anything, and I fear I may be forced to order the confiscation of all weapons from the civilian population._

 _If so, it will be the most unpopular decision of my reign. Many of their weapons are family heirlooms, and even many that_ _aren’t_ _were still the only thing that protected their owners from the undead. Taking such property from them will surely drive more people into Greyshield’s arms._

~~_This is such a mess, Thrall._ ~~

_A search of the armory found it completely undisturbed -- thus the bombs could only have come from Northwatch Hold. I have already dispatched an investigation team by zeppelin, and they should arrive within days._

_In the meantime, I must ask you to rely on your druids and shamans over more obvious methods of surveillance. I know the threat that Northwatch would pose to your people if it fell into the wrong hands, but if the soldiers stationed there feel threatened, they could easily play into Greyshield’s plans -- and he undoubtedly_ _knows_ _this. We must proceed with caution._

_I can only hope the absence of emergency contact on your part means that no such incident occurred on your side of the portal, and that Theramore’s ambassadors are settling in to Orgrimmar as well as your own have settled here._

_They seem content with their accommodations, and by sundown, a few citizens had gathered around the front steps of the embassy to converse with them. Was the gift of firewater your decision, or that of the ambassadors? Either way, I must admit it was rather entertaining to see Ngashk out-drink my most hardened soldiers -- though I suspect her victory has more to do with the hot peppers than the alcohol. Is scorpid venom actually the third ingredient, or was that just more ‘Darkspear Diplomacy’ on Tsaadu’s part?_

A knock. 

Jaina looked up from the parchment, and found her eyes dry. 

“Pained. Is everything all right?”

The elf said nothing for a moment, instead looking Jaina over with a worried crease between her brows. 

She dipped her quill again. “I’ll be done within the hour.”

“You said that two hours ago.” 

“Yes, well, it took my thoughts some time to settle.” 

“My Lady…” She stepped into the room, and sat across from Jaina. “I’ve been at your side for almost three years. Not once have I seen you with your thoughts ‘settled.’” 

Jaina opened her mouth to argue… and had nothing. 

Her quill dripped onto the parchment. With a sigh, she put it back in the inkwell and left it. 

“Alright, I’ll give you that -- but what would you have me do? I can’t sleep like this, not with everything that’s going on, but if I stay up I might still have some good ideas before I…” Damn. “Before I pass out.”

“Or,” Said Pained, “I could help you get to sleep.”

What--? 

Jaina flushed, heat creeping up her neck and down her spine. “...what, um, might that entail, exactly?”

Pained stood. “Come with me.” She offered hand, slender and graceful despite the strength Jaina knew to be within. 

“You won’t regret it.” 

Jaina’s heart _thudded_ in her chest. 

_That’s not what she means Jaina you_ **_know_ ** _that’s not what she means--_

It didn’t matter what she meant. 

When Pained looked at her like that, soft and stern at the same time, Jaina was powerless to resist.

*****

“You _lied_ to me.” Jaina’s hands scrambled for purchase on Pained’s firm bicep. 

“Did I?” 

“I regret this _immensely.”_

Pained just chuckled, and released her from the headlock. “You won’t forever.” 

“Forever?” Jaina pushed off the ground and onto her knees, muscles protesting. “I’m sore _now.”_

“And exhausted.” 

“I was exhausted _before_ you decided that both my magic _and_ your presence aren’t enough to protect me!” She staggered to her feet, thighs burning -- as did her cheeks, as she studiously avoided looking at her Pained’s bare midsection. 

“Mana can be depleted. Bodyguards can be incapacitated.” She sank once more into a fighting stance. “Come.” 

“Pained, my entire body hurts.” 

“It will heal stronger.” With that she surged forward, only slowing her arm as she swung for Jaina’s head -- and just as instructed, Jaina parried rather than blocking, waving her own arm as if Pained’s strike was a curtain, forearm against forearm, rotating her stance to keep the power in her core, and finally pressing her free palm to the side of Pained’s head. 

“Good. Could you conjure ice, like this?” 

“Yes.” 

“Then I will wear a helmet next time we do this, and you will practice freezing it.” 

“I thought the point of this was to prepare me to fight _without_ magic.” 

“It is. I just thought of that.” She shrugged out of Jaina’s grip. 

“Pained…” 

“Why did you change your wardrobe, My Lady?” 

“To…” To make a good impression on the orcs. “Alright, I get it, but--” 

“Good. Back to grappling.” 

“Pained, _please--”_

Too late. 

Almost worse than being headlocked and pinned and generally tossed around was the realization that she… well, she didn’t exactly _mind_ it, per se. 

Pained was very attractive. Objectively. It was entirely natural for Jaina to enjoy being touched by her. But _headlocks?_ Was that… even a thing? To enjoy feeling… not _trapped,_ not exactly, just… 

Ugh. 

So. 

Three days of that. 

Almost every hour of free time she spent in the training field out behind the Citadel, letting Pained play taskmaster. First they would grapple, as if she were being accosted by an Alliance agent sent to capture her. Then they would spar with wooden staves, Jaina’s weighted at the end to mimic the balance of her spell-staff. Pained would have her beat on target dummies at close range, both to strengthen her and to give her practice using her blows as a means of delivering frost magic to the innards of any attackers who got too close. 

She also made Jaina actually take the stairs of her tower -- which was how General Lorena found her Tyrsday evening. 

Sweaty, to be specific. And underdressed. With Pained carrying her staff for her. 

“Lady Frostfire.” She saluted, and next to her Kristoff stood a little straighter. To their credit, neither commented nor let their eyes stray to her rather unladylike attire. 

Still all but panting, Jaina shot Pained a glare and strode into the study. “Report, General.”

“There’s been another attack, Ma’am.” 

Jaina closed her eyes, and took a deep breath. 

_Please not in Durotar, please not in Durotar--_

“Where?” 

“Just outside Northwatch Hold. The men I sent to investigate the weapons theft were ambushed by orcs.” 

Oh. 

_What?_ But… 

She paced to her desk. “Go on.”

“They were armored by magic, Ma’am. Magic that reportedly smelled of brimstone and thyme.”

Oh, no.

“They were driven off, at the cost of five lives.”

Jaina felt ill. “Were we able to track them?”

“No. But we did find identifying marks. Matching ones.” 

From the scroll case tucked under her arm, Lorena slip a small roll of paper, and placed it on Jaina’s desk. 

Drawn on it in blurring charcoal was the rough likeness of a sword, engulfed in flames… 

No. 

A burning blade.

  
“Tides _damn it.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next: SOMETHING WICKED
> 
> Little bit of a lull here as I move necessary pieces into place. Stay tuned to see Jaina & Ngashk kick some demon ass. 
> 
> AKA the events of 'Cycle of Hatred' have been moved up on the timeline because of diplomacy between Orgrimmar & Theramore.  
> Also holy shit that book was hard to read. So bland. Hope you don't mind if I completely re-write the chunks of it that still happen in this timeline.
> 
> EDIT: As this fic progresses through the (altered) events of WoW proper + expansions it will involve a lot of side OCs, both in single appearances and ongoing. If you've got a WoW OC you'd like to see featured, just describe them in the comments!


	8. Something Wicked

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Basically the super-abridged events of Cycle of Hatred, summarized, rephrased, and altered to fit the new timeline and avoid copyright infringement. And because it was a boring-ass book & I wanna get to the juicy parts of this fic.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Super rushed chapter! Wrote it in a manic state after getting the preliminary cover art for my novel! Might be sloppy! Enjoy! 
> 
> Follow me @ https://jaina-pridemore.tumblr.com/  
> or  
> https://twitter.com/SwordandSol  
> to learn more!

**24 ADP**

Ngashk sat on the steps of the embassy, letting Caleb trace the lines and calluses of her hand.

Which was roughly the size of his entire head. 

“Pack-leader,” He said in Orcish, pronouncing it horribly. 

It should have annoyed her. 

“Olaš,” She told him. _Again._ Common rolled awkwardly off her tongue. 

“Pack-leader.” 

“Skilde.” _Better._

Behind him, his mother Marian watched as if she expected to wake up… but _not_ as if she feared for her child. 

Which she shouldn’t -- Ngashk had killed for him. For her. For them. 

And Goz had died protecting them. 

It was just _odd_ , still, to not see fear or hatred in a human’s eyes. And Ngashk knew that shouldn’t be enough to make her like someone… but she did. Marian, Caleb, his father Gyram… every day since she’d arrived, one or more of them had come by to talk to her. 

They made Theramore more tolerable.

Just slightly. 

The humidity still reminded her of Durnholde. During the spring rains. When the guards wished to be elsewhere, and took out that frustration on her. 

Which was not good to be remembering now. Those memories were for battle. Fuel for the fire. Not for standing outside the embassy, keeping a watchful eye on all the nervous humans walking past without doing anything to look _‘frightening.’_

Such as narrowing her eyes. Or clenching her fists. Or showing her teeth. Or looking too serious, standing too still, not standing still _enough…_

The climate, perhaps, she would adjust to. As she had to that of Durotar. 

The neighbors she wasn’t so sure of. Nor the neighborhood. 

The embassy may have been nice and round, but none of the buildings around it were, and if she looked up behind her she would see armored humans patrolling a high wall. 

Part of her was honored that the Warchief believed she could handle this. 

Part of her wanted to answer every forced, uncomfortable close-lipped smile with a feral grin, all teeth and fangs.

None of this mattered, of course. 

She was a weapon of the Warchief’s command. And even if she hadn’t been, she trusted his vision. 

The people of Theramore had seen the Alliance as the orcs knew it. As Ngashk knew it. And the Warchief knew their chieftain. 

This was the best chance the Horde would likely ever get to learn of human magics, human shipbuilding… 

“Waldir ras!” Said Caleb. _Say more!_

He was the only one not sitting on the steps. He had too much energy for that. Instead he stood in front of her, fidgeting and bouncing on the balls of his feet and glancing at her teeth. 

“You are very small and it honestly makes me uncomfortable,” She said. 

“What?” 

“Sië ranas hir dol waldir Vandarwosen.” _I don’t know how to say it in Common._

He frowned, but quickly moved on. 

“Can I…” He paused, searched for the words-- “...feel... your tusks?”

“No.”

He frowned. “Why?”

“Because I said so.” 

He pouted. 

“Dol vaedi res,” Said Marian.

_It’s so different._

Ngashk looked up, and found her thoughtful. “What?” 

“Aelgestrün.” _Your language._ “Lithos… lengoth Thalassë, nüe verënon, vis Orcalan...” 

_That is… I’ve ~~~~ Thalassian, just by living here, but Orcish…_

Ngashk shrugged. “Different world.” 

Marian frowned. Ngashk looked to Caleb, whose lips formed a tiny, silent _Oh_ before translating. 

“Thalassian and Common are as two trees,” She went on, “Growing beside each other. One much older, but still.” 

Caleb got halfway through that and faltered. 

“Methrine,” She explained, “Lith forthis…” Damn, what was the word for--?

“Rüfteš?” Asked Marian.

Maybe. She raised her hands before her, and interlaced her fingers. “The branches touch.” 

Marian’s eyes widened in understanding, and she nodded. “Yes.” 

“Orcish grew in a different forest.”

The oddness of this entire situation washed over her anew.

The Warchief said _protect Theramore,_ so she did, and now here she was. Exchanging languages with a six-year-old the size of an orcish newborn. 

And then, of course, Chieftain Frostfire appeared in a flash of light. Which Ngashk still wasn’t used to -- so she was on her feet with her longsword drawn and teeth bared before she realized who it was, and Frostfire’s elvish bodyguard was there to meet her, showing her own fangs. 

_Skittish beast._

The Chieftain, however, was unfazed. “Packleader.” 

Ngashk sheathed her sword hastily, and saluted. “Vassildë.” _Lady._ “Leidh lo darador?” _How may I serve?”_

The Chieftain stepped past her bodyguard, regarding Ngashk appraisingly… and Ngashk had to wonder -- for the skin under her eyes was dark with exhaustion, and there was a new tension in her stance. Frost crystals shone on the edges of her armored jacket, and in place of her usual white blouse she wore wine-red. 

A good color to not show bloodstains. 

“The Warchief advised that I seek your aid with…” She glanced down and to the side, searching for the words-- “An urgent matter.” 

Had he? 

She knew Frostfire was in regular contact with him, and his standing orders were to assist in the defense of Theramore if necessary, but… 

“A group of warlocks, led by a demon, are trying to start a war between Theramore and Durotar.” 

...Damn. 

Ngashk wet her lips. “I’m listening.” 

The Chieftain looked up at her with the same curiosity she’d first come to the medic’s ward with… but cooled and sharpened by stress, anger-- 

“They are calling themselves the Burning Blade.”

It was like a slap to the face. 

Ngashk couldn’t hold back the growl, the tightening of her posture -- even as Frostfire’s eyes widened in surprise. 

Her hands clenched into fists unbidden. 

Damn it. 

“If…” She fought to reign in her voice, to not frighten Caleb, Marian, Gyram-- “If war is their goal…” 

_Damn it._

“Then my place is here. With the ambassadors.” 

Frostfire’s brows drew together, her lips pursed-- 

\--pink was such an odd color for lips-- 

And then her stormy blue eyes flicked past Ngashk, toward… Zogrim? 

“Packleader.” Her second saluted as he approached, ducked his shaven head-- “Chieftain.”

Ngashk frowned. “What news?” 

“None. With respect...” He glanced between her and Frostfire, uncertain-- “I have this. I will protect the embassy while you hunt.” 

She didn’t doubt it -- without him she probably would have perished on Hyjal. But to _leave elders_ in a city of _humans…_

Zogrim saw the conflict in her eyes and stepped closer, lowering his voice. “Ngashk. If you stay, how long will you regret it for? What if harm befalls the Chieftain?”

“She is powerful. And we have _orders,_ Zog.” 

“And yet the Warchief recommended you for this.” 

She huffed. 

Zog lowered his voice further. “What reason has she given us to distrust her? And why would she deceive us? We outnumber her people by far -- and she is no fool.” 

“I _know,”_ She growled, “But why would Thrall not send a falcon?” 

“She _said_ urgent.” 

Ngashk looked at her feet, brow furrowed, clenching and un-clenching her fists.

“Wolf-heart…” Zogrim thumped her breastplate. _“Go._ Make your ancestors proud.” 

She took a deep breath. Met his eyes -- which showed nothing but confidence. 

Then she turned to the Chieftain. 

Such a small woman, without fangs _or_ tusks… but there was steel in her spine, and a storm in her eyes, just waiting to be unleashed.

“Lead,” Said Ngashk, “And I will follow.” 

*******

As the spell faded, Jaina heard a grunt behind her. 

She turned to find Ngashk clutching her stomach over the armor, bushy brows furrowed in discomfort.

“Unused to teleportation, Packleader?” 

Ngashk bared her teeth frustratedly. “To stop invasion was first time.” Shook her head. “This is fourth.” Hazel eyes mapped the room -- the citadel armory. “Will it get easier?” 

“Little by little. Here.” Jaina tossed her a piece of gum, wrapped in a leaf. 

Ngashk snatched it out of the air and squinted at it. 

“Chew it before we next travel. It will help.” 

Ngashk bowed her head. “I thank you.”

“No need.” Jaina turned then to the group of soldiers outfitting themselves. 

“Milady.” General Lorena sheathed her sword and saluted. “We’ll be ready to deploy in just a moment.” 

“Good. Who is the commanding officer?” 

Lorena blinked. “I am.”

Ah. 

Jaina sighed. “Lorena, you’re a General now -- you’re too important to be on the front lines unless it’s absolutely necessary.”

Lorena crossed her arms. “I’m too important and _you’re_ not?”

“My skill-set is better suited to dealing with demons.”

“And what about its minions?”

“They are mine,” Said Ngashk.

Jaina chewed her cheek. This seemed personal for her, so…

“Yes,” Aegwynn looked up at Ngashk from her chair by the wall. Her voice was dry, her gaze sharp and curious. “Are you going to introduce me to your friend?”

“Ngashk is a Packleader --a captain-- of the Warchief’s honor guard, sent to Theramore to protect the Horde ambassadors.” 

“Horde ambassadors…” Aegwynn huffed, and raised her flagon to her mouth. “Fancy that.”

Jaina glanced between her and Ngashk. The Packleader unsheathed her longsword and began to sharpen it, watching Aegwynn. 

Aegwynn watched right back, one pale brow arched in challenge. 

This was going to be a problem -- she had to… 

To…

“Kronazuk.”

Ngashk met her eye, hostility gone. “Dabu.”

_I serve._

“And you do it well. May I ask why the Warchief recommended you to aid us?” 

Ngashk’s brows furrowed again, nose scrunching-- 

Oh. That must have sounded rather--

“I--” She could feel her cheeks heating up. “I only mean that you are far from the only capable warrior he sent to Theramore.”

Ngashk’s fierce gaze flicked to her cheeks, which only made them flush more, and Jaina began nervously chewing her lip -- drawing those hazel eyes down. 

Her heart skipped a beat. 

Then Ngashk looked away, back to the sword and whetstone in her hands. 

“There _is_ no Burning Blade Clan.” Her voice was practically a _growl._ “Not anymore.” She dragged the stone down the blade. “Because of Legion.” Again, harder-- “Because of Fel.” Harder. 

Then she stopped. Closed her eyes. Took a deep breath in, out… 

“These warlocks _spit_ on the graves of my people.” 

Oh. 

_Blademaster._

Right. She should have suspected a connection. 

“So for giving me this chance, I thank you.” With one thick arm, Ngashk plucked the sword from her lap and slid back into its sheath. “But I must do it the orcish way.”

_Victory or death._

No prisoners. 

Jaina chewed the inside of her cheek. 

A captive warlock or two could yield valuable information… but Ngashk had already spared several enemies out of respect for Theramore’s needs. Thrall had recommended Ngashk -- entrusted her with this. And it was clearly close to her heart… 

“Very well.” She nodded briefly, then turned to Lorena. “So. The commanding officer?” 

Lorena opened her mouth, and closed it again. Clasped her hands behind her back. “Lieutenant Caldwell.” 

A redheaded man snapped to attention and saluted. “At your command, Milady.” 

Jaina nodded to General Lorena, who stepped forward and unrolled a map across the table. 

“This,” She said, “Is Dreadmist Peak, and the area surrounding it. It has been occupied by a demon and its followers. We do not know their numbers -- only that they will be orcish warlocks and the Fel-empowered servants of those warlocks. As we suspect the demon will be somewhere within this cave--” She pointed to the dark hole illustrated-- “Lady Frostfire will teleport you all as close to it as she can. This may put you in the middle of the enemy force-- you must be prepared to engage the instant you arrive. The element of surprise could well be your only advantage here -- use it well.” 

She looked to Jaina.

Jaina stepped up to the table. 

“Your orders,” She said, “Are to keep the warlocks and their servants occupied while Aegwynn and I banish the demon from this world. Two of you will join Pained in guarding us while we do so. Are there any questions?” 

A soldier raised his hand --mid-twenties, dark hair, crooked nose, olive skin-- 

“Private Byron,” Said Jaina. “Speak.” 

“If uh, at all possible, Milady, I’d be truly grateful for a piece of the demon’s horn. Or claws, or-- whatever it’s got. Y’know, just something to impress the new neighbors.” He grinned nervously. 

Jaina blinked. 

“I’ll… do my best, Private.” 

“Thank you, Ma’am.” He stepped back, bowing.

Hm. 

Was that a good sign or a bad one? 

A quandary for later. 

“If there are no other questions,” She said, “I will begin.” 

Chains clinking, Ngashk rose from the bench she’d been sitting on. At full height, she was at least two feet taller than Jaina, and one foot higher than the tallest soldier. 

“Lok’tar.”

There were no further questions. 

Jaina stepped to the wide open floor in the center of the room, focused mana into her staff, and began to etch. 

*****

Jaina had not missed the stink of Fel -- much less the scent of spilled blood and charred meat. 

With a wave of her hand she sent a pulse of frost out around them, freezing the foul mist in a million tiny crystals -- until at the yawning mouth of the cave it was rebuffed by an unseen spell. 

And ignored entirely by the half-dozen orcs standing guard. 

Before Jaina could do more than blink, several arrows hissed past her and buried themselves in mutated red flesh. 

The struck sentries cried out and their comrades roared through too many tusks, overgrown fangs-- 

And Jaina’s soldiers surged past her, swords flashing in the half-dimmed sunlight. 

_“For Theramore!”_

Then Pained was in front of her, drawing her bow and firing again -- even as several sentries tore the arrows out of themselves without so much as flinching and bellowed: 

**_“Lok-narash!”_ **

They drew their own blades, great bloodstained cleavers and spiked clubs, unnatural musculature heaving, eyes blazing red-- 

A rusted axe met gleaming armor, and blood spattered the reddish stone -- while another soldier blocked a slash only to have his sword forced into his skull-- 

One orc finally fell, riddled with Pained’s arrows-- 

And the sound of shouts and footsteps echoed out of the cave. 

**_“LOK’TAR OGAR!!”_ **

Ngashk sprinted into the fray, greatsword moving faster than Jaina’s eyes could track-- 

A sentry jerked to a stop feet from Lieutenant Caldwell, and then _back_ as Ngashk stomped on his chest and kicked him off of her blade. She swung around, cleaving the hands off another ere his axe could fall, snatched it out of the air and _hurled_ it-- 

_“Incoming!”_

At _least_ a dozen more fel orcs charged out of the cave’s mouth, blades bared. Jaina raised her staff, sucking moisture from the air to form--

“No!” Aegwynn seized her wrist. “Save your mana for the banishment!”

Steel met steel, men cried out--

_“Runaz-nukh!”_

She turned.

The reinforcements had stopped in a semicircle between the cave and her soldiers-- half of whom lay bleeding in the dust, the others stumbling back, Ngashk spinning away with a final lethal slash to her opponent’s neck-- 

And from the center of the formation stepped an orcish man at _least_ as large as Thrall, grinning with teeth that had far outgrown his mouth. From his bulging, reddened muscles sprouted a multitude of bony spikes. Around his hung human skulls, and over his shoulder he carried a jagged blade as long as Jaina was tall… which he hefted into the air, pointed straight at her-- 

_“A-rul shach kigon!”_ He snarled. **_“Galtak Ered’nash!!”_ **

And the sword burst into sickly green flames. 

_“Galtak ered’nash!”_

Dozens of other weapons stabbed the air, and were enveloped in the same fel fire. 

Fuck. 

“These are just the minions,” Aegwynn hissed. “We need to--” 

“Go.” 

Jaina turned just in time to see meters worth of chain fall from Ngashk’s arms and legs. Then the warrior reached beneath the leather of her battle-skirt, and drew two curved short swords from hidden sheaths within her thigh guards. 

Both were attached to the ends of her chains. 

Her eyes found Jaina’s, hard with fury. 

“Find the demon.” 

“What?” She glanced back to the fel orcs, their leader walking forward, still grinning-- “I’m not leaving you outnumbered!” 

“We won’t be.” With that Ngashk advanced toward the hulking half-demon, swinging her swords by their chains… and as Jaina watched, those two swords began to glow with heat -- as if fresh from the forge. 

What on--?

“With respect, Frostire-- _get out of range.”_

She didn’t need to be told twice. “Pained--”

“Here.” Her hand found Jaina’s shoulder. 

Jaina took Aegwynn’s hand, and blinked. 

It only took them as far the mouth of the cave -- but they were still past the sentries, several of whom turned eyes and weapons ablaze-- 

One caught a chain-sword in his back and was yanked away as Ngashk pulled. Another caught Jaina’s frostbolt in the belly. 

**_“Go!!”_ **

She did. Aegwynn could only move so fast, but with the fel orcs distracted by a worthy opponent, they hurried down into the darkness un-pursued. 

Squinting, Jaina cast a mage-light out before them -- but all it did was make the mist brighter.

Twenty paces into the cave, Aegwynn stiffened. “There’s—” 

“I’ve got it,” Jaina said. She muttered a quick incantation to counter the entrapment spell -- fortunately rather simple, probably meant to stop any stray animals or people from wandering in unannounced. 

Of course, dismantling it might serve as an alarm. Aegwynn slowed, letting Jaina and Pained go first.

Screams and metallic strikes echoed down from behind-- 

“Down!” Beside her Pained dropped into a crouch, pulling Aegwynn down with her. 

But it took more than a little fireball to scare Jaina -- with a blast of frosty air, she snuffed it out. 

“I’d say they know we’re here.” Aegwynn took Pained’s hand, and let herself be pulled back to her feet-- 

And from all around them, a voice too deep and gravelly to come from human or orc rumbled: 

**“Oh yes.”**

Aegwynn sighed. “Can the theatrics, Zmodlor. We’re not your brainless minions, and we’re not impressed.” 

**“Aegwynn! What a** **_pleasant_ ** **surprise. I thought you had long since died at the hands of your** **_son._ ** **How fortunate that I get to do it myself, instead.”**

And from somewhere ahead echoed the sounds of many claws, scrabbling over dirt and rock--

 **“I** **_owe_ ** **you for what you did to me.”**

\--and impish cackling. 

Pained growled. “Grellkin.” 

Into the light scampered dozens of tiny demons, fur as orange as the mist, needle-like teeth bared-- 

And Pained surged forward to meet them. 

As she slashed at them, Jaina raised her staff, summoning a salvo of fireballs that ignited fur and flesh -- and illuminated the scores more swarming towards them. 

“This is a distraction!” Aegwynn shouted. 

“I know!” Jaina threw out a violent gust, slamming furry bodies into the cave walls. 

More replaced them. 

“Pained, can you handle--” 

“Yes!” She twirled forward, sword and dagger carving bloody furrows in the swarm. 

Reaching for Aegwynn, Jaina prepared to blink again -- and stumbled as a wave of dizziness washed over her.

The old woman’s hands found her forearm. “Are you all right?” 

“No. My mana--” Too many teleportations. She swallowed roughly, fingers tingling-- “I can cast the banishment, but only if I don’t cast anything else. Pained will have to--” 

A gurgling scream echoed through the enclosed space as the last three Grellkin met their end on Pained’s sword. She planted her foot on them and yanked it free, breathing hard… and grimaced down at her leathers. “I’m never getting these stains off.” 

**“Don’t worry.”** Zmodlor rumbled. **“They won’t trouble you for long.”**

His voice didn’t come from everywhere, this time.

It came from right in front of them.

The flames crackling on the slain Grellkin flared brighter, turning green.

Jaina looked up. 

And up. 

The cave had widened into a cavern… and filling it, horns nearly scraping the ceiling, leathery wings nearly touching the walls, and eyes blazing with felfire, stood Zmodlor. 

Eight hooded figures kneeled around his cloven hooves, chanting rhythmically. 

Heart pounding, Jaina reached into her jacket, fingers closing around the scroll of banishment-- 

Then the mist thickened around her head, filling her senses with brimstone, and a searing pain stabbed through her skull. She fell to her knees, clutching her head, barely managing to keep hold of her staff--

 _“Jaina!”_ Aegwynn’s voice was miles away.

She sucked in a breath. Gritted out: “Warlocks...blocking the spell.”

_Tidesdammit--_

They shouldn’t have been able to-- 

Another throb--

She’d overextended herself, teleporting so many times-- 

**“This is even better than I’d hoped.”** The demon’s voice was laced with sadistic mirth. **“I’ll make sure that the orcs are blamed for Proudmoore’s death. It will send the humans into a frenzy. Nothing will stop them from going to war, and without her to guide them, they’ll lose—but not before they kill as many orcs as possible. It will be glorious!”**

Sweat dripped down Jaina’s face. 

“Like hell,” Aegwynn muttered. Then her hand was on Jaina’s-- and the ex-Guardian’s power was flowing into her, bright and invigorating, singing through her veins. 

She opened her eyes, looked up at the demon-- 

**“No!”**

And poured her mana into the banishment scroll. 

Runes flared bright, glowing silver through the mist--

 **“You cannot stop the Burning Blade!”** Zmodlor lurched, wisps of violet energy flowing around him-- **“We will prevail over all,--”** Spirals now, around his limbs, through his wings and he lurched, spasmed, fought-- **“--destroying everything in our path, and then we— aaaaaaaaaAAAAAAAARRRRRRRRGH!”**

Zmodlor’s screams echoed— not only off the walls, but from the mouths of the warlocks as they fell writhing to the floor as his body twisted and contorted as if crushed by a massive invisible hand, spiked bones breaking and stabbing out of his skin, splattering sizzling ichor--

A portal opened in the middle of his torso, arcane light shining out through his rippling flesh-- 

**“NO!! I won’t let you trap me agai--”**

Then he imploded, and was sucked away. 

The warlocks kept screaming, convulsing-- 

The ground began to shake. 

The pain vanished from Jaina’s head -- just in time to see the warlocks be pulled off of the ground and into the portal before it winked out. 

The cavern was still shaking.

“Jaina--” Pained offered her hand, eyes wide-- 

And next to them, Aegwynn collapsed. 

One of the stalactites ripped from the cave roof with a sharp crack and impaled the floor only feet away. 

The Fel must have seeped into the stone--

Jaina shoved herself off the floor and pulled Aegwynn’s arm over her shoulder, wrapped her own around the old woman’s waist-- “Grab hold!” 

*****

One of these days, she was going to actually start carrying mana potions on her. 

She managed to teleport them clear of the cave, back into the sunlight, and there she fell again, barely catching herself on her staff, stomach lurching as her body tried to cope with the sudden displacement. 

Aegwynn stirred against her, moaning faintly. 

They needed to get out of here _now._

She swallowed dryly, rose onto one knee-- 

And paused. Stared. 

Ngashk stood tall, surrounded by bodies.

Her chest heaved beneath scarred metal, face slick with sweat and blood from a cut on her scalp. Her chains glowed with heat -- and her blades were wreathed in flame. 

All around her, Fel orcs lay dead and dying. Their tainted blood steamed as it spilled from half half-cauterized gashes and stab wounds. 

Lieutenant Caldwell and his remaining men walked among the fallen, collecting weapons and warily watching the several fel orcs who still lived -- who were kneeling before Ngashk with their heads bowed.

She caught Jaina’s gaze, and the unspoken question in it. Her voice was rough from exertion.

“They wish to learn.” She breathed heavily. “The right way.” 

Jaina glanced back toward the cave -- dust billowed up out of it, and beneath her feet she could feel tremors, but not as violent as those within. 

She turned to Ngashk, and the Fel orcs around her. They weren’t as corrupted as their leader, but they were still unnaturally robust, their splotched with red… 

“You trust them not to try anything?” 

The Packleader rolled one shoulder. “I trust you will help to slay them if they do.” 

And Jaina blinked. 

_Trust._

She… wasn’t sure she’d heard that from any orc except Thrall. Granted, it was situational, but... 

Oblivious to her musing, Ngashk glanced down at the kneeling orcs with disdain.

“Up,” She grunted. 

They stood, obedient as soldiers. 

Ngashk surveyed them through narrowed eyes, then looked to Jaina expectantly. 

And Jaina… well, she was a bit too tired and magic-addled to restrain her curiosity. 

“I didn’t realize you were a shaman.” 

Ngashk tilted her head ever-so-slightly. “Shaman?” 

“Voth’agha.”

She frowned. “I am not.” 

“But... that was fire magic.” 

“Yes.” 

“And you’re not a mage.”

“No?” 

Aegwynn groaned in Jaina’s arms. “Can you be fascinated by this _elsewhere?”_

Right. 

Summoning what strength she could, Jaina set about drawing one last teleportation circle.

Her cheeks were still flushed when the arcane engulfed them. 

*****

“At Northwatch?” Jaina’s mouth was dry. She hadn't yet heard back from the forces Kristoff had sent there before she discovered his agenda.

In her scrying orb, Thrall’s face was sunlit. And tired. 

“The leader of one of my warbands…” He sighed. “Went rogue, I suppose. Like your chamberlain, he was under the influence of this…” 

“Zmodlor?”

“Yes. I could not contact you, and human troops were amassing at Northwatch. I didn’t know what to make of it -- so when Burx volunteered to investigate, I agreed. I trusted him. He lead nearly six hundred warriors to the fortress… and upon arriving, told your people they had one hour to leave -- after which they would be slaughtered. Fortunately there was a former warlock present, who contacted me when he sensed the demon’s influence. Even so, I barely arrived in time to prevent bloodshed.”

Jaina had a terrible headache. “So your people know about Zmodlor’s involvement?” 

“They do -- many warriors saw the demon’s mark on Burx’s corpse, and have been instructed to spread the word. My warlock hunters are working overtime.” 

“Good.” Jaina leaned back in her chair. “I don’t suppose you have any of those to spare, do you?”

Thrall smiled wryly. “I’ll see what I can do. It would certainly aid in the common defense, for Theramore to be better equipped in that respect.” 

She tried to force a smile. It quickly faded. “We were very lucky, Thrall. A demon may have been responsible for this, but he simply brought up hatreds that were already there.”

“I know. It was far easier for our people to cooperate with the Legion as a common enemy. Now...” He trailed off.

She smiled wryly. “Now we have the Alliance.”

“Do you think it will be enough?” 

“I think…” Jaina’s gaze drifted to the window, and the flag sketches spread before her. “I think we have to _make_ it enough.” 

Thrall rumbled in curiosity. "Go on."

“These hatreds cannot not be undone in separation,” She said, “...any more than we can stand alone against the Alliance.” 

His gaze grew more intent. “You mean…? 

“I will speak to my people, explain the reasons, the necessity... and I will ask them to decide if they wish to join the Horde." 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> NEXT: CHOICE
> 
> Follow me @ https://jaina-pridemore.tumblr.com/  
> or  
> https://twitter.com/SwordandSol  
>  <3


	9. Choice

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jaina gives a speech.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Short chapter, just to FINALLY get us to the good part.

Jaina struggled up the stairs to her chambers. 

Pained, who followed close behind her, hadn’t insisted on it -- she just didn’t have the mana to do anything else. 

Not that her leg muscles were much better off. Not after the three straight days of combat training immediately before the whole Burning Blade fiasco. 

Which… with Ngashk’s fierce reaction fresh in her mind, perhaps that wasn’t an appropriate name for it. 

Zmodlor fiaso. After the whole Zmodlor fiasco. 

Breathing deep, she pushed open the door to her chambers and shuffled in. 

Pained took position outside. 

“About time you got back.” Aegwynn sat in a chair by the window, a book open in her lap. 

Jaina smiled tiredly. “I see you’ve recovered fully, Magna—your tongue included.”

“So it would seem.”

The old woman had passed out before they’d reached Theramore, and for a time Jaina had feared she would not recover at all. It had taken her nearly four days to wake. 

Jaina fell more than sat in her own chair. She wouldn’t have minded a few days to recover from the ordeal herself -- but with Kristoff dead, she had no chamberlain to delegate to. 

Duree, her secretary, was handling as much as she could, but as useful as she was, the more complex aspects of running Theramore were beyond her. Lorena had been somewhat more helpful, at least in handling the military aftermath, but she too had no skill with other aspects of government. 

So Jaina was fucking exhausted. 

She regarded Aegwynn, who stared back with her deep green eyes. It frightened Jaina that their entire victory over Zmodlor was due to the happenstance of her choosing the Bladescar Highlands as the place to relocate the thunder lizards. Even if she had discovered that Zmodlor was responsible, without the erstwhile Guardian, she would never have been able to defeat the demon and his minions.

“I want to thank you, Mag—Aegwynn. Without you, all would have been lost.” 

Aegwynn simply bowed her head in response.

“I suppose that you’ll want to return to Bladescar?” 

“Actually,” Aegwynn’s lips curved in a faint smile, “no.”

Jaina blinked. “No?”

“Don’t get me wrong, I do need to fetch some of my things, pick from the garden one last time before those big damn lizards trample all over it… but I’ve been out of the world for far too long. I think it’s time I started living in it again. Assuming that the world will have me, at any rate.”

“Most definitely.” Jaina sat up in her chair. She had hoped that Aegwynn would feel that way, but it had seemed too much to hope for. Thankfully her exhaustion helped hide her excitement. “As it happens, I have an opening for a chamberlain. It’s a position that requires knowledge, insight, and a willingness to put me in my place and tell me off when I need it. I’d say you qualify in all regards—especially the last part.”

Aegwynn laughed, “Certainly, though the first two are arguable. Still, I suppose I’ve got a few more centuries of insight than most folks here.” She got to her feet -- as did Jaina. 

Aegwynn held out her hand. “I accept.”

Jaina took it, unable to hide her grin. “Excellent. Thank you again, Aegwynn. You won’t regret this.”

The former Guardian smiled wryly. 

“We’ll see about that, won’t we? 

*****

It was a bright day in Theramore. The sun had broken through the morning fog, lighting up the pale stone from which the city was built and warming Jaina’s skin. 

Once more she stood on the steps of her tower, looking out across a sea of faces. 

At the front of the crowd stood dozens of gnomes and dwarves, and off to the side the ambassadors had gathered, flanked by Kor’kron. The gash on Ngashk’s scalp had healed well under the care of a shaman, such that a line of slightly paler green curved from what would have been her hairline and back over one pointed ear. 

“You’re sure about this, Milady?”

Jaina looked to where Lorena stood proudly beside her. Famous (or infamous, depending on who you asked) as she was for rising so high ‘despite her gender,’ the new General’s face was well known -- though she had eschewed dress uniform in favor of her armor, she would not be mistaken for anyone else. 

Jaina smiled nervously. “Honestly? No. But we’re out of options.” 

Lorena’s brows furrowed. “I know. I do. It’s just…”

“Unorthodox?” 

She nodded. 

“True. But isn't all of this? Everything we've done here?" 

The General smiled, at that. “Got me there.”

“Trust in the people, Lorena. The elves are overcoming their sense of superiority, the humans have stopped seeing the gnomes and dwarves as lesser…”

“Aye.” Lorena looked out over the masses. “Desperation’s a powerful thing.” 

“Yes,” Said Jaina. “That and a common goal.” 

And with that, she raised her staff, activating the amplification spell she had woven beforehand. 

A hush fell over the crowd.

Jaina took a deep breath. 

**“People of Theramore. I stand before you today with a with solemn request, born of dire necessity.**

**By now you will have heard of what very nearly transpired at Northwatch Hold, and of the foul demon behind it. But though his magic was strong, he did not seed the fear and anger that brought us to the brink of war -- he merely** **_exploited_ ** **it.**

 **Many of us still bear the scars of the First and Second Wars, within and without… and so too do the people of Durotar. As we suffer from the memories of what and** **_who_ ** **they took from us, they are haunted by the atrocities they committed under the influence of the Fel.”**

The people knew her story. They knew about Derek. 

**“As the cruelest of the orcs led the sack of Stormwind and the Siege of Lordaeron, so too did the most wicked of humans abuse the captive orcs, even unto children and elders.**

**And** **_yet_ ** **we have seen past our scars.**

 **Orc and human, troll and elf… we have opened our cities to each other. We have opened our minds. We have opened our** **_hearts…_ ** **and that is more than the Alliance can say.”**

A murmur passed through the crowd, but Jaina could not discern its character. She forged on. 

**“Thanks to this chance you have taken, already many of you have seen that this is** **_not_ ** **the same Horde that razed Stormwind. Just as I rule Theramore, the orcs are now ruled by a new generation -- a generation that** **_hunts_ ** **warlocks and demons instead of bending to their will!”**

She stopped for breath. Somewhere in the crowd, a few people shouted, their words lost in the masses. 

**“The Alliance has made a grave mistake,”** She said. **“In spurning us, they have given up their only foothold in Kalimdor. They have pushed us closer to those they deem their enemies, and into a trade agreement that will see the Horde gain knowledge of magics they never before possessed… all because they could not see past old fears and hatreds.**

 **Here and now, we have a chance to be better than them, to be** **_stronger than them!”_ **

Scattered applause, a few cheers-- 

**“In Dalaran, I observed the ways of the Kirin Tor. The Council of Six, the greatest sorcerers in all of Azeroth, shared power between them. When it came time to make decisions that would effect the entire city and everyone in it, they did not turn to a single steadfast leader -- they held a vote.**

**I know such a thing is foreign to many of you. These past few decades we have relied on mighty kings and lords, to both our benefit and detriment. But for thousands of years, since even before our ancestors first walked this world, the Tauren have been choosing and deciding by popular vote -- and they are** **_still here.”_ **

She paused then, heart racing in anticipation and fear of her next words. On a whim she glanced to Lorena. The General just smiled, and nodded. 

Jaina steeled herself. 

**“We are beset by bigots, monsters, nations far more powerful us… and, if we are not careful, by our own bitter grudges.**

**So to** **_all_ ** **of you, regardless of race, creed, or station, I present a choice that will determine our future.**

 **We can choose to stand alone -- against the Alliance, against the Deserters, against the Legion, and against whatever unknown perils yet await us in this new land…** **_or_ ** **we can face it all together -- as members of the Horde!”**

Ten thousand faces stared up at her, shocked, confused, pensive-- 

**“I am not asking you to let orcs into your homes. I am not asking you to adopt their rituals or traditions. Theramore will forever belong to us, and our ways will remain our own! But as full citizens of the Horde, we will gain unrestricted trade and protection. As we teach the orcs how to conjure portals, they will teach us to commune with the elements and better defend ourselves against the Fel. With our knowledge and their resources, we will build a fleet to rival that of the Alliance, and** **_never again_ ** **see our city invaded!**

 **People of Theramore… for yourselves, your children, and your children’s children, I bid you now** **_choose!”_ **

Silence fell over the city. 

Jaina’s heart thudded heavily against her ribs. 

Gulls called. 

Then, somewhere toward the front of the crowd, a man shouted:

“Well! I dunno about the rest of you, but I’m **_sure as hell_ ** not letting a bunch of **_orcs_ ** outdo **_me_ ** at forgiveness!” 

He… what? 

Someone else shouted in agreement -- then another, and another-- 

_“Fuck the Alliance!!”_

_“We love you Jaina!”_

**_“Who’s got red paint??”_ **

Oh. 

Oh wow. 

The shouts spread like wildfire, until individual voices were lost in a symphony of support, soon resolving into a single, roaring chant of: 

**_“To-ge-ther! **To-ge-ther!** **To-ge-ther!** **To-ge-ther!"**_**

She couldn’t have held back the tears if she tried. 

Beside her, Lorena crossed her arms, a disbelieving smile on her face. 

"Got any more history you feel like making? Or can I get to work on actually counting the votes?" 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> NEXT: TOGETHER
> 
> (AKA green beefcake extravaganza)
> 
> I'm still open to including your OCs! Just describe them in the comments <3


	10. Together

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Party like a warchief

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this took so long! Made it real phat for ya though. 
> 
> My inspiration for Jaina’s outfit: https://jaina-pridemore.tumblr.com/image/186912760203  
> And for the stools provided for the leaders: https://chairish-prod.freetls.fastly.net/image/product/sized/df9af93c-7f63-4467-99db-7f413631f9fc/ashanti-kings-stool-9954?aspect=fit&width=1600&height=1600

_To be accepted into the Horde,_ Thrall had written, _one must swear fealty to its Warchief._

_Since I came to power, many thousands of warriors have done so… and it often leaves me troubled. So many of their oaths echo those sworn to Blackhand, Orgrim, Ner’zhul…_

_They are the words of orcs ruled by their foulest urges. Orcs who believed they had no choice but to serve tyrants, to abandon their honor and their decency in the name of survival._

_So after Hyjal, my advisors and I penned a new oath, for a new age._

_As you read the following words, know that they are the product of long nights around the fire, debating and compromising to find a balance between the dogmas that ruled the old Horde and the values that guide the new…_

The sunrise poured through Jaina’s window. 

She stood before her mirror, admiring the work of her tailors. 

Her knee-high buccaneer boots and high-waisted riding pants looked as smart as ever -- but for this occasion, she had decided against her flattering blouse-and-vest combination. 

Instead she wore a starched uniform jacket of deep navy blue, closed tight across her chest by six silver-buttoned straps. To either side of her high collar, tasseled epaulets gleamed in the morning sun -- and between them, two thick snake chains hung across her restrained bust. 

From the belt around her waist hung an ornate cutlass -- a gift from General Tate, a former captain of the Kul Tiran navy. 

Altogether, it made her feel… powerful. Capable. 

Like someone who wouldn’t look out of place at the Warchief’s side. 

The instant she clipped the chains into place across her chest, the enchantments she’d woven into the uniform came to life, leeching the tiniest fraction of her mana and transforming it into a soothing cold -- which would flare into a frosty shield in the case of any attack. Small ice crystals twinkled on the chains, buttons, and epaulets… and regarding them, Jaina felt a knot of anxiety form in her belly. 

Orgrimmar was a fortress. She knew that. And she had seen the might of the warriors that guarded it… but she had trusted her own soldiers as well, and dozens of them had turned against her. 

And with her and the leaders of the Horde gathering in one place, surrounded by thousands… 

She turned, surveying the room -- her bedside table, the sea-chest beside it, the chair by the window, the bookshelves, her dresser… 

Where had she put those damn mana potions? 

She checked atop her dresser, among the charms, notebooks, spare pouches of reagents… nothing. 

She checked the drawers, rumpling her clothes horribly in the process… still nothing. 

She opened lone drawer of her bedside table -- and flushed. 

That _very_ much wasn’t a mana potion. 

She still couldn’t believe she’d actually bought it. 

She flipped the booklet face-down, and slid the drawer shut. Kneeled before her sea-chest, pulled it open-- 

And there, lying among the faintly glowing vials atop her old purple mage-robes, was the stormsilver anchor pendant father had given her when she left for Dalaran. 

_Never forget who you are, Jaina._

Easy for him to say. 

She traced the anchor with one finger, down the shank to the crown… and felt the faintest hum as Kul Tiran metal and residual arcane responded to the mana brimming beneath her skin. 

The symbol no longer flew over Theramore. 

The new flag was a sapling sprouting before a rising sun, beneath five stars -- one for Lordaeron, Quel’thalas, Stormwind, Dalaran, and Ironforge.

For of the Isle’s ten thousand people, fewer than one hundred hailed from Kul Tiras… and since the thwarted invasion, their feelings about that were mixed. 

Proudmoore… 

How could she be proud of it, now?

She plucked several vials from the silk, and let the lid of the chest fall closed. 

*****

Jaina followed Thrall out of Grommash Hold, into the merciless Durotar sun -- and the sudden, cacophonous roar of the teeming crowds. 

Orgrimmar was packed. 

Thousands filled the Valley of Wisdom before them, cheering at the sight of their Warchief. 

And maybe a few of them for Jaina. 

Here and there she could see clusters of trolls and tauren, pumping their fists in the air -- but the vast majority were orcish. 

Two lines of warriors formed a wide lane through the masses, winding up the gradual slope and under the high gate that led to the Valley of Honor. 

“Ready?” 

Jaina looked up at Thrall. 

He was smiling down at her — and in the sunlight there was a distinct silver to the blue of his eyes.

Thankfully her cheeks were already red from the heat. 

“Are you?” She asked. 

He chuckled deeply. 

—what would that feel like, if she put a hand to his chest?— 

“Honestly?” Thrall stepped up to Snowsong, running a hand through her fur. “I rarely feel completely ready for things like this.” 

Jaina blinked. She knew that feeling well, she just… never expected someone as capable as Thrall to feel the same. 

“I just prepare as best I can,” He said, “And trust—”

“In your people?” 

He paused, and turned back to her with a strange look in his silver-blue eyes — warm, but curious—

“And in myself,” He said. Then, with a small, guilty smile: “When possible, at least.”

And Jaina’s heart swelled with sudden fondness. 

Smiling, she turned to her horse— a chestnut mare named Summer, chosen for her calm temperament. 

Silently grateful to her earlier self for practicing beforehand, she stepped into a stirrup, gripped the saddle, and jumped, slinging her other leg over. 

_Couldn’t do_ **_that_ ** _in mage robes._

She’d have to thank Thrall later, for choosing to do it this way. By the end of her last visit her feet had been sore and blistered. 

Situating herself, she glanced back over her shoulder. Pained stood close behind, glowing eyes flicking back and forth. Vol’jin had mounted a feathered raptor of all things, while Cairne had wisely decided not to trouble with a kodo. All three leaders were flanked by a small number of advisors and guards, and behind them, ringed by an even mix of human soldiers and Kor’kron, stood Theramore’s ambassadors. 

Beside her, Thrall leapt into Snowsong’s saddle. 

“Shall we?” 

With a deep breath, she looked out over the crowd. 

The orcs were smaller than Alliance chroniclers made them out to be, whether in prose or exaggerated illustration. Obviously they still outsized the vast majority of humans… but still. 

She wondered how much of the difference between reputation and reality could be attributed to Fel empowerment, and how much was purely propagandic. 

All she knew for sure was that the only true monsters she knew of were far beyond the canyons of Orgrimmar. These were just people, as reasonable and fallible as her own. 

And now they were about to _become_ her people. 

She gave Thrall the most confident smile she could manage. 

Which… admittedly wasn’t very. 

“After you, Warchief.” 

Side by side, they trotted their mounts through the Valley… and as they did, the people reached out as if grasping at their aura and pulling it to their chests. 

It wasn’t a salute, it was… 

She wasn’t sure what it was. 

She glanced to Thrall, who only offered a cryptic smile. 

Soon they passed beneath the eastern gate, and emerged into the Valley of Honor. Immediately, another cheer rippled out across the masses. As it faded a horn sounded, low and long, followed by the powerful beat of great kodo-hide drums. Jaina and Thrall descended into the Valley, over the bridge and through the low center of the canyon, where a firepit had been dug and a great many logs balanced against each other. 

At last they reached the high ground before the gates of the Arena, and dismounted. From the building’s curved roof hung the crimson banner of Orgrimmar, the bloodhoof-on brown of Thunder Bluff, the red-white-and-turquoise of the Darkspear… and the sunrise sapling of Theramore, white-on-blue. 

Around them dozens of Kor’kron stood in full armor, forming a circle perhaps ten yards wide. 

Snowsong padded forward and lay down in the shade, watchful eyes glinting. Past her stepped an orange-haired trollish woman, stocky for her kind, who took Summer’s reins and led her off through the crowd, toward the rear gate. 

Then, out of the gates of the arena, came the Horde ambassadors to Theramore -- Olom, Yaghna, Ariok and Tsaadu first, followed by-- 

Oh. 

Ngashk had foregone her armor. 

Instead she wore only a patterned chest-wrap that bared her battle-hardened shoulders and soft belly, and a short sarong. Thighs as thick as both of Jaina’s put together flexed firm as she walked into the sun. Leather sandals wrapped her powerful calves. 

_Light have mercy._

Her hair was free of its braids, and cascaded thick and wavy down the unmarked side of her head, leaving the scars on her jaw and scalp for all to see. Around her neck hung those same three tusks -- and her arm was flexing, fist to chest-- 

“Lady Frostfire.” 

Oh no. 

Jaina met her hazel eyes, praying to whatever was listening she hadn’t seen her staring. 

_Fuck_ she was beautiful. 

“Kronazuk!” Jaina smiled nervously, cheeks burning. “Ta’argh, um-- mo’arz throm.” 

_I see you are healing well._

Ngashk glanced to Thrall, who was speaking to one of the on-duty Kor’kron, then back to Jaina. “Ra’akz os orrlog Urukath.” _I hear you have practiced (your) Orcish._

Jaina grimaced. “How bad is it?” 

“Just enough.” 

“I-- what?” 

Thrall stepped in to join the conversation -- and Jaina found herself thankful for somewhere to look that _wasn’t_ all that smooth green skin. 

“Your accent and grammar need work,” He said, returning Ngashk’s immediate salute, “But you’re perfectly intelligible. It is clear that you are making an effort, despite the difficulty. That has already won you the favor of many, and will continue to.”

Jaina took a not-so-calming breath. “You are the _opposite_ of High Elves.” 

Thrall smirked. “So I’ve--” 

A howl rang out through the Valley, sending Jaina’s heart into a frenzy as she turned to look. 

It started low and guttural, climbing in pitch-- 

And then came the drums. 

**_BOOM-BOOM._ **

There-- by the firepit, the crowd was parting, revealing… Saurfang? 

The High Overlord sucked in a deep breath and howled again, loud and long -- and others joined in, all cutting off with high-pitched yelps just as the drummers struck--

**_BOOM-BOOM._ **

Again, and now dozens were crying out. Jaina could see the drummers at the edges of the clearing, raising their hands… 

**_BOOM-BOOM._ **

And then Saurfang started to sing. 

Basic as Jaina’s grasp of Orcish was, she could only catch an occasional word, and less as the Kor’kron lent their voices to it -- even unto Ngashk, who had less of a singing voice and more of a rough bellow. 

**_BOOM-BOOM._ **

The High Overlord called out, and his warriors responded, striking their chests in time with the drums. 

**_BOOM-BOOM._ **

It was… solemn. Almost a lament, but about _what_ , she couldn’t quite tell -- Thrall was mentioned, and Durnholde, a cage… 

**_BOOM-BOOM._ **

_Taretha?_ That wasn’t Orcish, was it?

“My first friend.” 

She turned.

Thrall’s voice was flat, his expression grim. “To date, she is the only human for whom we sing Lok’Vadnod.”

A heroic ballad?

**_BOOM-BOOM._ **

“She helped me escape Blackmoore… at the cost of her life.” 

Oh.

This was strategic. 

Jaina’s throat felt tight. Had he really dredged up this pain, just to remind his people that not all humans were--?

“It was Saurfang’s idea. Old wolf likes to sing.”

**_BOOM-BOOM._ **

He did have a good voice for it.

Thrall didn’t look like he wanted to say anything further -- so Jaina didn’t. 

Soon the song changed, grew more emphatic, more triumphant… Thrall was mentioned again, and _Golgonnashar,_ something about a battle… 

**_BOOM-BOOM._ **

And then the Kor’kron fell silent, and Saurfang sang the final note alone, loud and long. His voice rang mournfully off the high stone walls.

When the last echoes faded, all was silent. 

Motion behind her drew Jaina’s eye -- a team of orcs emerged from the Arena, each carrying a large stool of ornately carved wood. These they set in a row, and over them laid sumptuous furs. Ariok helped Farseer Yaghna into one, and Wildcaller Olom took the next, but neither Thrall, Cairne, nor Vol’jin made to sit. 

So neither did Jaina. 

Beside her, Thrall took a deep breath -- giving her just enough warning to brace herself for his bellow of: 

_“LOK’TAR!!”_

And more orcs than there were people in Theramore roared back: 

**_“OGAR!!!”_ **

That was her cue. With a wave of her hand a murmured incantation, she activated a modified version of her usual amplification spell -- to carry his voice not just through the Valley of Honor, but into the other Valleys as well. 

**“Tov’rok Khwaurun!”** He called out. _People of the Horde!_ **“Azrak khulu RUNAZ-NUKH -- vadnod Hyjal!”**

_Hail Chieftain FROSTFIRE -- hero of Hyjal!_

They did-- so thunderously that Jaina felt it with her entire body. Fists and swords and banners jabbed the air. 

**“Lady Frostfire,”** Said Thrall. **“The Horde owes you and your people a debt of gratitude.”**

He paused there, for Tsaadu to translate-- 

**“Not only did you fight alongside us against an impossible enemy, but you did so in spite of all that you once suffered at our hands.”**

Perhaps _in spite_ wasn’t the best choice of words, but… 

**“Not only did you defy the Alliance to preserve the peace between us — you defied your own blood.”**

Jaina forced herself not to wince openly.

 **“On behalf of all of us who without your aid would be little more than fuel for the Fel,”** Thrall reached into a large pouch on his belt-- **“I present to you now a token of our eternal thanks.”**

And from it he pulled a spiked crown of… 

Huh. 

Whose _bone_ was that? 

Thrall raised it high, for all to see. 

**“Behold! Hewn from the skull of Archimonde by an orcish warrior, cleansed of corruption by a tauren druid, blessed by a shaman of the Darkspear, and at last carved into a form befitting of a human Queen!”**

Jaina’s eyes widened. That— that wasn’t her _title_. She may have been ruler of Theramore, but— 

But it wasn’t about that. 

In full view of his people, he was recognizing her as an equal. 

Jaina’s heart skipped a beat— and then he was holding the crown out to her, smiling wide, and saying: 

**“Let this forever be a symbol of your open heart, your iron will, and the dire perils we can overcome together.”**

Warmth swelled in Jaina’s chest. **“Ag’khun-gorá, Golgonnashar.”**

_You honor me, Warchief._

She reached out and took the crown. 

It had been carved so that dull spikes not unlike orcish tusks curved up from it. 

It fit perfectly on her head. 

**“Hwag ta’ark gawl,"** she said, **"A** **vok khulun Khwaurun.”**

_I too bring gifts — for all the leaders of the Horde._

Jaina raised her staff and empty left hand, and spoke another incantation. With a flash of light, four objects appeared in the air above her, held aloft by shimmering violet: a silken pouch, two scroll-cases, and a single steel pauldron… which she levitated down until it hovered between her and Saurfang. 

His eyes widened, and for an instant Jaina second-guessed taking Ngashk’s advice -- but then he smiled good-naturedly and accepted the pauldron as the Kor’kron laughed and cheered. Even Thrall chuckled.

Jaina glanced over at Ngashk, and found her cheeks dimpling as she grinned. The warrior met her gaze -- and winked with one kohl-lined eye. 

Jaina’s face grew warm. 

She refocused on the gifts. 

Next was the silken pouch, which she let fall into her outstretched hand. 

**“In this bag,”** She said in Common, for she did not know the next words in Urukath, **“Are a dozen tokens, magically tethered so that we may alert each other in times of crisis.”**

As Tsaadu translated, Jaina handed the pouch to Thrall, who took from it several of the rune-etched stones before passing it to Cairne. 

Leaning her staff against her shoulder, Jaina reached up with both hands, and plucked the scroll-cases from the air. 

**“Chieftain Vol’jin,”** She said, **“Chieftain Cairne. Written on these scrolls are enchantments, which by reading them aloud may be transferred to your weapon of choice. Once applied, the spells will sustain themselves with the ambient arcane energies of their surroundings -- and with that power will ensure that your weapons never dull, chip, or fracture.”**

Once Tsaadu had translated that, Cairne bowed his head in thanks, and Vol’jin gave a terse nod before accepting the gift. 

At last she turned back to Thrall, nervousness mounting. 

But she had rehearsed this, until Pained had all but forced her to stop and rest. 

The Orcish flowed easily from her lips. 

**“For you, Warchief, I bring no material gift. For you have your own mighty magic, and no weapon or armor I could craft could ever surpass what you already have.”**

She paused to breathe, to let that echo through the Valleys… 

And smiling down at her, Thrall gave the faintest nod of encouragement. 

So she kneeled before him. 

**“Instead I offer my allegiance** — **and that of Theramore.”**

Silence. For one heartbeat, two— 

Then a roaring cheer went up then — not from all, but from many. 

Thrall raised a hand, sending a great hush out across the gathered masses. 

For a long moment, he let them wait, surveying his people with a calm that Jaina could not help but admire. 

At last, he turned to her, and offered his hand. 

“Rise, Chieftain.” 

She took it. Let herself be pulled up. 

“You bow to no one,” Said Thrall. 

With a squeeze, he let go — and then to the crowd, he boomed: 

**“I did not declare myself Warchief.”**

His voice was already deep in Common -- but only in the guttural rhythm of Orcish was its full depth and power expressed.

 **“You** **_chose_ ** **me,”** He said, **“Not to rule with an iron fist, but to lead us into the future with wisdom, strength and honor.**

 **That choice, that** **_freedom_ ** **to choose, and the defense of it, is the foundation on which we have built this new Horde -- the foundation we will lay down our lives to defend. We who have been prisoners, refugees, and slaves!”**

Saurfang hummed in agreement, and several of the Kor’kron grunted or shouted encouragements-- 

**“The people of Theramore chose peace over old hatreds, and for it they have been forsaken and attacked by those who were sworn to protect them. They are human, yes. Between us run rivers of blood, lit by the fires of our smoldering grudges. But the same was true of the Eastern Kingdoms — and yet they came together, and** **_together_ ** **were strong enough to stand against the might of the Old Horde.”**

Thrall looked over at Jaina, eyes bright. 

Had he always been this handsome? 

**“That is what I propose now.”** His voice grew in timbre and volume, such that goosebumps rose on Jaina’s skin-- **“Not the easy joining of two rivers, but the arduous labor of fusing iron and carbon into unbreakable steel! It will not be quick. It will not be easy. But if we do it, if we** **_choose_ ** **to open our arms and our homes to the survivor and the outcast no matter their color or creed, we will become stronger for it — not only in numbers and resources, but stronger of heart and of mind!”**

The Kor’kron shouted in unison: _“ZUG!!”_

 **“So I ask you now,”** He said, **_“Not_** **to submit to your Warchief’s will, but to** ** _choose_** **for yourselves. The people of Theramore have come before us in their hour of direst need. They are prepared to give their all, to work, fight, and if need be** ** _die_** **for the good of the Horde.”**

He sucked in a cavernous breath, chest rising-- 

**“People of Durotar, the Barrens, and Mulgore!!** **_What say you??”_ **

The Valley erupted with noise. 

Untold thousands bellowed their support, waving banners to and fro, shooting fireworks into the air, pounding drums, blowing horns… 

And tears sprang sudden and hot to Jaina’s eyes. 

Thrall turned to her, beaming. **“And what say** **_you,_ ** **Chieftain Jaina Frostfire, Ruler of Theramore?”**

And her heart was pounding, her eyes were wet, and if she wasn’t gripping her staff she was sure her hands would be shaking— 

But this too, she had rehearsed. 

So with the deepest breath of her life, Jaina raised her staff, and into the invisible coils of the amplifying spell shouted: 

**_“Victory or death!_ **

**It is these words which bind me to the Horde** — **for they are its most sacred and fundamental truth.**

**Before the Elements, the Ancestors, and the Holy Light, I swear to give my flesh, blood and magic for the good of the Horde.**

**In times of peace I will be an instrument of the people’s need, and in times of conflict, I will be a weapon of the Warchief’s command!”**

**I swear this on bones of Archimonde, the destroyer of worlds, who together we laid low!**

**I swear this by the blood of my father, who I sacrificed for the sake of peace!**

**I swear this upon the name Frostfire, the name that** **_you_ ** **gave me -- for which I have** **_discarded_ ** **the name bestowed upon me by our enemies!”**

She paused for breath, heart like a war drum, adrenaline coursing through her-- 

**“From this day until my last day, I live and die not just for Theramore…”**

Saurfang stepped up beside her. **“Not just for Orgrimmar...”**

Cairne’s hooves clomped on the packed earth. **“Not just for Thunder Bluff...”**

Vol’jin brought with him the scent of woodsmoke and incense. **“Not just for the Darkspear...”**

Jaina’s heart felt full. **“--but for the Horde!”**

All together, they cried out: **_“For the Horde!!"_ **

And the people answered. 

**_“FOR THE HORDE!”_ **

Then Thrall raised the Doomhammer above his head. The stone glowed, Jaina smelled something sharp and clean-- 

And out of thin air, lighting flashed down and lit the pyramid of logs-- igniting them into a massive bonfire. 

Another cheer rippled out across the crowd. The drummers started up again. 

Suddenly Jaina was being ushered back, into a fur-draped stool, and two Kor’kron were _lifting_ that stool onto their shoulders. She tensed, frantically gripping the edge of the seats -- which only made the orcs around her laugh and cheer.

As they carried her into the Arena, they chanted: 

_“_ **_Ru-naz-nukh! Ru-naz-nukh! Ru-naz-nukh!”_ **

*****

So. 

She may have underestimated the potency of orcish firewater. 

Or… maybe she just hadn’t eaten enough before indulging. 

Though in her defense, she’d been practically vibrating with adrenaline, and then Cairne had been telling a story about the unification of the Tauren tribes and Thrall was chuckling so deeply she could _feel_ it and the drummers were starting a new rhythm and a _really big_ drinking horn was being passed around… 

And now everything was a bit soft around the edges.

Before her stretched a long table, laden with smoked fish, roasted tubers, an entire boar… 

But beyond it, on the packed-earth floor of the Arena below, a dozen orcs and Darkspear moved in synchrony around a roaring fire, their athletic forms all light and shadow, spinning and stomping such that the beads ‘round their ankles shook together in time with the drums. 

To her left sat Cairne, discussing something with Olom in Taurahe… and to her right sat Thrall, tapping his large fingers on his thigh in time with the rhythm. 

Even sitting, he was so much taller than her. Bigger. And even without looking she felt sheltered by his size. 

But she was, of course. Looking. The strong lines of his jaw, the curve of his tusks, the lustre of those thick braids… 

Were they coarse? The orcs had surprised her in so many ways that she _wouldn’t_ be surprised if his hair was soft to the touch… 

Someone bellowed, their words lost in the rhythm -- but then the rhythm changed, and a cheer went up. 

She looked. 

Down the wooden steps that had been erected between the Arena floor and the seats above came an orcish man, his naked torso adorned with curving lines of pale pigment. He pounded his chest, but not in salute, so what…? 

The drummers slowed, waiting four seconds, striking twice, waiting four seconds, striking… 

Jaina half-turned to Thrall— and found him looking at _her._

“He challenges his lover to Mak’amon.” 

His _lover?_

“Mak’amon…” Jaina frowned. “Duel of…?” 

Thrall just smiled conspiratorially, and nodded to the scene below.

“Watch.”

The man had reached the Arena floor and was looking up at the crowds above— who had fallen quiet in anticipation, even as the drummers beat out that ominous rhythm… 

And then another great cheer went up, and people pointed, and Jaina followed with her eyes to see… another man. Also orcish. 

_Oh._

As she watched, he all but tore off his shirt and tossed it away, to the great excitement of all those around him. Some of them even dove to catch it— but he only had eyes for his lover below. 

Grinning, he jogged down the steps, into the Arena proper, and took position several yards from the other man. 

Both of them looked up at Thrall then, and the painted one called up: 

“Kur magosh’ong, Golgonnashar!”

_With your blessing, Warchief!_

And with a broad smile, Thrall raised his fist aloft, and let it fall. 

The lovers looked at each other then, and for a moment they faced off, trills and shouts of encouragement ringing out into the night above. 

Then the drummers struck _one-two-three_ — and the two began to walk toward each other, speeding up until they were running—

The painted one ducked just as his lover collided with him, and with a great heave sent him flipping head-over-heels into the dirt. 

Jaina gasped. 

The crowd went wild. 

Both men were still smiling.

The challenged one leapt up and lunged for his lover, and then they were grappling, robust green muscles straining with effort as they twisted and rolled. 

Jaina looked to Thrall again. The Warchief had leaned forward, one forearm braced on his thigh, watching intently. 

Right— what did this look like to him, with his intimate knowledge of combat? 

Another cheer went up, pulling Jaina’s gaze back to the duel. 

The challenger had pinned his lover, straddling him, palming his muscular chest— only to be bucked off by a powerful hip thrust, rolling forward to his feet and pivoting but _not_ fast enough to escape his lover’s brawny arms— 

Just like that he was in a headlock, struggling in vain, even _elbowing_ his lover in the midriff to no avail, veins standing out on his brow… 

Then he relaxed, slapped the forearm pressed over his neck— once, twice, thrice—

And his lover let go. 

The crowd cheering around them, the two men leaned in close, pressing their foreheads together. 

A smile tugged at Jaina’s lips unbidden.

She’d braced herself to be surprised, shocked, even scandalized by cultural differences, but this… it just felt too _intimate_ for so public a place.

She averted her eyes. Looked at Thrall instead. 

He was beaming. 

“What…” Jaina tore her eyes away from the white of his fangs, stark between green lips— “What _was_ that?”

Thrall sat back, and picked up a flagon of firewater. “A wedding.” 

_“...what?”_

“Or as close to a wedding as we really have, traditionally.” He shrugged. “Orcs seek strength in our mates. So with Mak’amon, one tests for that strength— and if their lover proves worthy, they are bound together. Life partners.” 

Oh. 

Jaina’s eyes strayed back to the Arena floor, where the lovers were clinging to each other as they climbed the stairs. She looked over the crowd— hundreds of happy faces, feasting and drinking and dancing… 

Not a single one tightened in disapproval or judgement. 

Something in her un-knotted then, _relaxed,_ such that she was almost brought to tears. 

Looking down the long table before her, she found Buri deep in conversation with Yaghna, Ariok listening intently even as he feigned disinterest, Ysuria juggling for a group of trollish children, using magic to cheat… 

And Tsaadu sitting in Ngashk’s lap.

Whispering in her ear.

_Oh._

The Darkspear ambassador was perched sideways across those thick thighs, her back arched, slender blue fingers gently tracing a scar on Ngashk’s chest. The packleader’s eyes glinted in the firelight, and the muscles of her forearm flexed as she gripped her drinking horn, wet her lips… 

A wave of heat rushed through Jaina’s body. 

Then Ngashk tossed the horn away, curled an arm around Tsaadu’s waist, and—

Jaina looked away, cheeks on fire. 

That was… 

_They_ were… 

Like her. 

They were like her. 

She couldn’t have stopped herself from grinning if she’d wanted to. 

“Enjoying yourself?” Thrall smiled contently down at her. 

“Yes, I…” She forced herself not to glance at the women at the end of the table. “This is _wonderful,_ Thra— Warchief. _”_

“Jaina.” He laid a hand on her shoulder, heavy and comforting. “We’re not at war with anyone. This is a _celebration._ Please, call me by my name.” 

“Thrall.” The urge to put her hand over his rose up, sudden and warm. 

Would that be alright? 

The last thing she wanted to do was accidentally disrespect his authority somehow… 

“This is…” She looked around. “This is more than I ever could have imagined. Than I ever could have hoped for, I…”

He squeezed, just slightly, the barest hint of his mighty strength… 

“Welcome to the Horde, Jaina.”

A different set of drummers had begun to play, with a different set of drums— shaped like hourglasses, and small enough to be carried under one arm. They struck with strange, curved wooden mallets, producing a rich, hollow sound… to which a great many orcs were singing. Jaina spotted Drek’thar not far away, and Yaghna lent her voice as well. The elders provided a deep, continuous background to the rough, emphatic call-and-response of the younger generations. 

When at last the song came to an end, Jaina felt oddly bereft. 

Then someone shouted, and agreement rippled through the crowd. Jaina wasn’t sure if it was the firewater or the multitudes preventing her from understanding, but… 

“Human song!”

But some of them did speak Common.

**_“Human song! Human song! Human song!”_ **

Thrall chuckled. “How about it?” 

“Oh, I don’t—” What would she even—?

More shouts drew her eye left down the table— 

Onto which General Lorena was now climbing.

Oh dear. 

“Tauren and gentle-orcs!” She raised her stein, amber liquid sloshing out— “Trolls an’ Goblins! It is my— _our_ sincerest honor t’humbly present a timeless classic—” 

She glanced over her shoulder, though at what Jaina couldn’t see— 

“Belov’d by human sailors th’world over!” 

Then another was jumping up onto the table, one of the men she’d recalled from Northwatch… with a fiddle. 

Lorena grinned at him, stomped her foot— one, two, three, four—

_“What shall we do with a drunken sailor,_

_What shall we do with a drunken sailor,_

_What shall we do with a drunken sailor,_

_Early in the morning??”_

Every human in her immediate vicinity burst into song, belting out the lines. 

**_“Weigh heigh and up she rises_ **

**_Weigh heigh and up she rises_ **

**_Weigh heigh and up she rises_ **

**_Early in the morning!”_ **

Soon thousands were clapping and stomping along to the lyrics and the fiddle. Lieutenant Caldwell and one of his men leapt up, hooked their arms together, and began to skip round and round.

**_“Shave his belly with a rusty razor,_ **

**_Shave his belly with a rusty razor,_ **

**_Shave his belly with a rusty razor,_ **

**_Early in the morning!”_ **

Thrall, one of the few non-humans who actually understood the lyrics, turned to Jaina in bewilderment. 

All she could do was shrug and clap along, cheeks burning once more. 

**_“Put’im in a longboat ‘til he’s sober,_ **

**_Put’im in a longboat ‘til he’s sober,_ **

**_Put’im in a longboat ‘til he’s sober,_ **

**_Early in the morning!”_ **

Befuddled though they clearly were by the message, it wasn’t long before hundreds were bellowing the last line of every verse— and pouring down to the Arena floor to dance. 

They kept away from the bonfire, instead keeping close to the high walls, ‘til they’d formed a great ring of jubilant movement. A chorus of shouts ushered a dozen Darkspear into the circle, and the rhythm changed. Trollish drums blended with Tauren flute and orcish throat-song. 

The Darkspear danced into pairs, and facing each other began to sway, and then to step side to side, low to the ground, shielding their faces with one arm and then the other, over and over—

And then half of them spun, kicking over the heads of their partners, who ducked and wove and struck back.

With the kind of athletic grace Jaina had only ever seen from Kaldorei, they pantomimed combat… and as she watched, her curiosity only grew. There was no pattern to the strikes. They were random, and each dancer simply knew every possible movement well enough to evade and counter-attack without the slightest hesitation. 

It wasn’t just a dance; it was a martial art in its own right. 

Jaina glanced at Vol’jin— who was already looking at her. 

“Go’maza kazok t’kur Gurubashi,” He said. 

_A little something from our time under the Gurubashi._

And again Jaina felt a swell of gratitude to Thrall for preparing her so well, for offering up so much of the history she would need to mesh with the other leaders— among it that of the Darkspear’s subjugation by the more numerous and vicious tribes of Stranglethorn. 

This was a dance of _resistance._ The honing of combat skills, disguised as play… 

It ended too soon for her liking. Perhaps she could speak with Tsaadu about arranging something… 

Next into the ring were a group of Tauren, who paired up as well, locking horns with each other and mimicking pitched battles before spinning away to ‘fight’ other partners… and Jaina found herself fascinated by the core similarities to the Darkspear dance. Was this traditional, or had they developed it more recently, inspired by trollish custom? Of course trolls and tauren had surely encountered each other throughout history, but still… 

A loud drumroll called the tauren back into the circle, and a great many orcs out of it, into the middle. 

“Here,” Said Thrall. 

The drinking horn had come around again. 

_Mountain goat,_ Jaina recalled. _From Alterac._

It was almost small in Thrall’s hand… and against the hazy remnants of her better judgement, she was already reaching for it, her fingers grazing the rough skin of his knuckles—

And flinching away as the contact sent a warm shiver through her. 

“Sorry,” they said simultaneously. 

And then stared at each other in slightly inebriated surprise. 

Which, in her slight inebriation, Jaina found funny enough to giggle. 

Thrall’s storm-blue eyes widened even further— and he chuckled. Handed her the drinking horn. 

She was careful to only sip, this time, throat doubly warmed by the burn of the alcohol and the heat of the spice. 

Thrall held out his hand, and she passed it back to him. 

Below, the orcs moved in graceful, powerful synchrony. Jaina could feel the drums in her blood. 

She looked up, to the crowd gathered in the stands, and could not find the newlyweds. She looked to her right, down the table, and saw that Ngashk and Tsaadu were gone. 

The sight of them pressed close to each other flashed unbidden through Jaina’s mind, and she had to suppress another shiver… but soon that heat faded to a warmth that settled in her chest.

...when was the last time she’d felt so… relaxed? 

Pained’s massages soothed her body, but not her mind. Not her heart. 

Not like this. 

The words were spilling from her before she could second-guess herself:

“I… will admit that I a bit tipsy. But I think…” No. “I _feel_ like this is where I’m supposed to be.” 

A moment passed, a moment of drums and long, dancing shadows… but empty of Thrall’s voice. 

So, strangely free of any anxiety, she turned and looked up at him. 

His face was half light, half shadow, the lines of his brow and cheekbones all the stronger for it.

So strong her fingers twitched with the urge to touch. 

His tusk ring glinted, drawing her eye, and she wondered what those tusks would feel like, on the soft skin of her palms. 

His lips, so much larger than her own, were still wet with firewater… and his eyes were half-lidded, looking not at _her_ eyes, but lower, at—

_“Golgonnashar!”_

Jaina tore her eyes away and followed the sound, feeling very much like she’d just been interrupted in the middle of a complex incantation. 

One of the orcish dancers, a woman with a shaved head, was smiling up at Thrall— and around her, the others appeared to have turned when she shouted. Now they echoed that shout, calling up to their Warchief. 

Their circular audience echoed that call, and in a few short moments were chanting:

**_“Thrall! Thrall! Thrall! Thrall!”_ **

He waited until the chant had spread, up out of the arena and through the crowds above… 

Then he stood, and a mighty cheer went up. 

What—?

He reached up, between his right pauldron and his breastplate, and tugged. Then he hunched forward, and with a quick shrug sent the pauldron slipping off his shoulder and into his waiting hands. 

The cheers came again, louder, trills and shouts and claps and bellows, swelling with each piece of armor he removed, until he was clad in nothing more than a wide leather girdle, the loincloth attached to it, and his boots. Firelight danced over sculpted green muscle— impossibly thick thighs, convex with strength, pectorals bulging and flexing hard beneath a layer of soft-looking black hair, shoulders that looked carved from marble, arms thicker than Jaina’s whole body—

Thrall raised his arms then, pumping both fists in the air to the joy of the crowd, and hopped over the table, silhouetted by the fire below as he walked to the edge of the stands… and stepped over. 

Jaina’s heart _thumped_ as if it were trying to escape, and she lunged forward— just in time to see him hit the arena floor and roll to his feet in one flowing movement. 

Again, the crowd went wild. 

He shouted something then, and the people resumed their dance. Thrall leapt into it seamlessly. Like the Tauren and Trolls before them, they spun into pairs, and soon a mock-battle was underway— but where the others had locked horns and flowed around each other, the orcs threw themselves at each other. Thralls partner, the woman with the shaven-head, ducked under his wide punch, seized his arm, and _heaved_ him over her shoulder. He somersaulted in the air, and landed right in front of another orc who had also thrown his partner— and the sequence began again. The pairs spun toward each other and then sprang back as if struck, pretended to stumble, and charged in again. They swung and blocked, snarled and bumped chests. 

It was fearsomely beautiful. 

When the dance concluded, Thrall turned to look up at the table of leaders and dignitaries.

Jaina stared. 

She had seen Thrall exert himself before, seen his cavernous chest heaving… but never without his armor. Never _beaming_ like this, solid muscles slick with sweat, face flushed with joy… 

She felt a bit flushed herself, actually. 

Perhaps she should stop drinking for the night. 

“Varok!” Thrall beckoned to the High Overlord, slightly breathless— “Cairne! Vol’jin! Get down here!” 

Saurfang rose with a grumble, and Vol’jin with a chuckle.

“Lady Frostfire!” 

Oh no. 

Thrall held out his arms to the revelry around him. “I’m sure we would _all_ be delighted to see how your people dance!” 

The masses echoed that sentiment, heartily. 

Oh dear. 

_“_ **_Ru-naz-nukh! Ru-naz-nukh! Ru-naz-nukh! Ru-naz-nukh!”_ **

Jaina glanced to Lorena. The General grinned mischievously back at her, and with a flourish swept her arm out to the arena below in a theatrical _after you._

Very well. 

Jaina stood, to the roar of the crowd— and teleported her entire entourage to the arena floor. 

Lorena promptly fell on her ass, spilling her drink across the dirt, and the instant she’d realized what happened burst out laughing. 

The man with the fiddle made haste to where the drummers were gathered and began to talk animatedly, gesticulating with his bow. 

And then they began to play. 

Jaina recognized the tune immediately— a circle dance, common to nearly all the Eastern Kingdoms… but as the fiddle mixed with orcish drums and tauren flute, it became something else entirely. She had to dance faster to keep up, and as the other peoples of the Horde joined in, they added their own flourishes, jumping instead of just kicking their feet, spinning instead of simply sidestepping, snaking their hips… 

Around that fire, something new was forged.

Ere long the tune changed, signalling the dancers to partner up. Jaina, warm with drink and movement, found herself face to face with a very flushed Lorena. 

“I’ll admit,” Said the General, taking Jaina’s hand, “When you first ran this by me, I thought we were in for a right mess.”

“And now?” Jaina lay her free hand on Lorena’s shoulder, and they began to slowly spin around the fire. 

“I’m afraid I don’t have your way with words, Milady. But this…” She smiled. “This is worth fighting for.” 

Jaina’s face hurt from smiling. “Yes. It is.” 

Then the drummers beat out a cue, and Jaina parted from her general, spinning on the balls of her feet, into the arms of… 

“Oh!” 

“Oh?” Tsaadu cocked her head, just a bit. 

“I… can’t say I expected to see you again tonight, ambassador.” 

Tsaadu barked out a laugh. “An’ ya won’t be, after this! But I’d be slackin’ off if I missed such lovely exchange of culture, wouldn’t I?” 

“I suppose so,” Said Jaina, diligently keeping her eyes on the tall woman’s face. “I don’t mean to pry, but… are you not worried about a conflict of interest, on the Packleader’s part?” 

“Worried?” The ambassador grinned, guiding Jaina into a turn. “When a woman like _that_ got her hands on me? _Worry_ be the _last_ thing on mi mind.”

Once again, Jaina’s blood migrated into her cheeks. And her ears. And her neck. And— 

“Oh,” She managed. 

Tsaadu laughed again, and spun her. 

“I, ah.” Jaina cleared her throat. “I wouldn’t know.” 

The ambassador missed a step. Her smile disappeared, and her eyes went wide. “Ya joking.” 

What? 

“N-no, I—” 

_“Nevva?”_

Tides why was her accent so _attractive_ —

“I, um, haven’t quite had the opportunity.” 

Tsaadu was grinning again. “Well, ya do now.” 

“W-what?” It came out as a squeak. 

“Ya really don’ know?” 

“I’m sorry?” 

“Ya don’ know what it does to an orc t’see such a pretty gyal slaughta demons by the score?” 

“D-do tell.” 

The grin dwindled to a teasing smirk. “I tink not. Betta ya find out fa y’self.” 

The cue came again, and they let go, spinning apart.

“Jus’ talk ta someone!” Tsaadu called—

And then Jaina was face-to-face with Thrall.

Well, face to chest. 

Heaving, muscular chest. And chiseled abdominals, and sweat glinting in soft-looking hair… 

And then the smell of him washed over her, strong and earthy and faintly spiced, mixed with incense, leather, and woodsmoke, and Jaina just wanted to… 

Oh.

Oh _no._

“Lady Frostfire,” He rumbled, and the sound sent a hot shiver down her spine. 

Oh this was bad. 

“Warchief.” Her voice was high, and breathy. 

This was very, very bad. 

Thrall held out his huge, callused hands, firelight dancing across his powerful form, his rugged features— “May I have this dance?” 

Light have mercy. 

“I—” Jaina swallowed dryly. “It would be my honor.” 

And then she laid her hand in his. Warm, toughened skin closed around her own, firm yet gentle. She couldn’t reach his shoulder, and so she had no choice but to palm his bicep as he palmed her lower back. 

Her entire lower back. 

All the frost magic in the world could not have kept her cool. 

With a soft push, he drew her closer closer, into his radiant heat and musky spice… and a warm, insistent ache pulsed in the cradle of Jaina’s hips. 

She took a steadying breath. 

Thrall knew what he was doing. His steps were smooth, confident, and his touch steady, and despite all his awesome strength, he led gently, not pushing or pulling but guiding… 

“You surprise me yet again, Warchief.” Her words came out impressively even. 

Thrall smiled, baring his fangs, nose and eyes scrunching cutely. “It seems to be all pleasant surprises between us, does it not? And expectations defied.” 

“Demonic plots notwithstanding,” She said. 

“Plots you foil with only a handful of troops.” 

“All of whom would have perished were it not for the warrior _you_ sent to me.” 

His smile turned fond. “I am glad. Ngashk bears the scars of internment as deeply as any of us. If she can live among humans, fight alongside you…”

“Then perhaps there is hope,” Said Jaina. 

Thrall’s eyes shone. 

“Perhaps there is.” 

She followed the gentle pressure of his hands in a broad, slow circle, until the world around them blurred together, dancing flames and spinning bodies, fiddle and drums, cheers and trills… 

Thrall held her, steady and strong. 

Her leader, now. 

Her Warchief.

Who she could _not_ be _attracted to._

Fuck. 

“Jaina?” Thrall’s handsome smile faltered. “Is everything alright?” 

Oh Light she’d been staring. 

“I—” Jaina averted her eyes, but he was so big she had to _completely turn her head_ to do so. “Yes! Yes of course. I just…” Shit shit shit shit— “It seems I may have underestimated the potency of that firewater.”

Thrall frowned. “...yes, you certainly out-drank some of your companions.” 

Then his eyes widened. 

“That is— I was impressed! By your tolerance.” 

And Thrall too averted his eyes, for a moment. 

“Do… do you need to take a break?” 

“No!” Jaina gripped his hand a little harder, and his bicep harder yet, the muscle hard beneath her touch, tacky with drying sweat— “No, I’m fine. Besides, it would be a shame to step out on such a dashing dance partner.” 

Tides take her now. 

Thrall, to his credit, took the horrible, clumsy, inappropriate, ill-timed flirtation in stride. “And a shame to see you go, My Lady.” 

And that warm ache returned with a vengeance, pulsing deep within her, chasing away all thought save for that of pulling him close—

And suddenly, mercifully, the drums beat their cue. 

“Until later,” Jaina blurted, “Warchief. “

Then she turned, and with all the composure she could muster, walked out of the circle, toward the stairs. 

Pained was at her side in an instant. “My Lady?” 

And it was all Jaina could do to keep her voice low as she said: 

“I need to get out of here.” 

Without question or hesitation, Pained linked her arm through Jaina’s, and led her through the crowd. 

Kor’kron converged around them, forming a ring that parted the drunken revelers like water around a stone.

They stepped out of the Arena, into the light of the moons. The smell of roasted meat and upturned dust filled Jaina’s senses. 

She took Pained’s hands, and gripped her staff. 

The world around them rippled and bent, and with a flash of stomach-twisting light, they were standing in her room beneath Grommash Hold. 

“Jaina!” Pained hissed. “You’re _drunk!_ We could’ve ended up fused with a wall!” 

“I’m fine,” she lied. “I’ve teleported much farther in much worse states.” 

Pained just frowned, brows creasing in worry. “What happened with the Warchief?” 

Damn. 

“Nothing,” Jaina choked out. “I simply… it’s been a long day.” 

Pained just arched a brow, eyes bright in the dim lantern-light. 

“And I have meetings to attend tomorrow. I thought it best to retire early.”

Pained crossed her arms. 

“Goodnight,” said Jaina, and fled into her room. 

The door shut heavily behind her, iron lock mechanism rasping into place, and she slumped back against it. 

_Breathe, Jaina._

She could still feel Thrall’s hands on her, like firebrands through her uniform, and her foolish, drink-softened mind couldn’t held but imagine him sliding one hand from her back to her waist, thumb brushing her navel while his fingers reached her spine and _gripping_ —

And just like that, there was a fire in her belly. 

_“Fuck,”_ she groaned. 

This was… 

This was alright. This was hardly the first time she’d found herself inconveniently attracted to someone. 

It just… had never been this _strong._

No. If she could make it through _Hyjal,_ she could make it through this. She just had to… 

Had to… 

She snatched her hand away from her stomach, and clenched it into a fist at her side. 

Took a deep breath. Let it out as slowly as she could. 

She just had to rest. Thrall was… _unreasonably_ attractive, yes, but she’d also had quite a bit to drink. Everything would be clearer once she’d slept it off. 

She forced herself to be slow and methodical in removing her uniform, carefully hanging her jacket and breeches on the coat rack. 

Clad in her undershirt and smallclothes, she slipped into the pile of furs that served as a bed. Cool, exquisite softness engulfed her overheated skin, and a sigh spilled from her lips unbidden. 

For a moment she just breathed, slow as she could, staring up at the smooth rock of the ceiling. 

Then with a wave of her hand, she snuffed out the lanterns, plunging the room into darkness. 

Which only made things worse.

In the absence of sight and sound, echoes of celebration filled her mind’s eye. Drums thudded in time with her heart, and with them came visions, of lithe blue curves on robust green, of Tsaadu’s slender neck exposed in laughter… 

And Thrall. His booming voice, resonating unto the depths of her as his intoxicating scent blurred all but the desire to run her hands over his sculpted form, from his bulging arms to his solid chest and down, over the taut expanse of his stomach… 

The fire in her belly burned hotter, and with a frustrated growl she tossed the furs off her, exposing herself to the cool subterranean air.

Which only made her nipples tighten against the fabric of her undershirt— and in her mind’s eye it was not a shirt but one of Thrall’s large hands, rough against her sensitive chest. 

Lighting arced through her, leaving her wet and wanting and _hollow,_ and she bit back a moan, arching up off the furs. 

Her smallclothes clung to her, the linen an unbearable constriction around her hips, and she could not shuck them off fast enough. 

Her breaths shuddered out, each one only stoking the molten heat between her legs.

This was bad. This was very, very… 

Irresistible. 

She couldn’t sleep like this. 

So, biting her lip, Jaina slid both hands over her chest and _squeezed._

She couldn’t hold back the moan, this time. Even her own small, soft hands were as fire, sending ripples of heat through her. _Tides,_ what would Thrall’s feel like? He could probably wrap them around her waist and knit his fingers across the small of her back, pulling her flush against him... 

She whimpered, pinched her nipples, and twisted. Her hips bucked, seeking friction, and Jaina had no more will or patience to resist. One hand still on her breast, she trailed the other down, over her twitching stomach, and curled her fingers where she needed them most. 

A ragged gasp echoed through the darkness. 

With two fingers, Jaina parted herself, baring herself to the cool air, and began to draw slow, agonizing circles around her sweet spot, every little bit of friction sending a bolt of lightning through her core-- 

Lighting. Thrall’s weapon. 

A laugh escaped her, high and breathy, and she clamped her other hand over her mouth, muffling her moans and whimpers even as her legs fell further open. 

It was a wildfire, now, spreading with every pass of her fingertips until she could no longer keep her movements slow. She circled faster, back arching, legs shaking, and it was Thrall’s hand on her mouth, Thrall’s hand between her legs, his breath hot on her neck, his weight pinning her—

And then there was nothing _but_ heat, rushing through her in racking waves. Her back bowed, every muscle in her body pulled taut around the furious, pulsating _ache_ — 

The world went white.

When at last she surfaced from the flood of pleasure, she was panting. Sweat lay cooling on her skin. Aftershocks twitched through her… and shame settled sickly in the pit of her stomach. 

This… 

Fuck. 

This was going to be a problem.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> :D 
> 
> So this was my first time writing smut. How'd I do?
> 
> Next: SEEKER AND SCRIBE


	11. Seeker and Scribe

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jaina awakes to a new world.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Less action-packed than the other chapters, but making this make more sense than canon is gonna require some less dramatic parts.  
> Planting seeds for the big stuff, here.  
> Enjoy!

Jaina’s first conscious action was to whimper. 

Her head felt like she’d been slapped around by an abomination. 

Her gut felt worse. 

And her thighs felt… _sticky?_

With another whimper, she rolled onto her side… and paused at the feeling of soft fur on her bare skin. 

What--? Why was she _naked?_ She never slept… 

Oh. 

Oh Light.

Wait. 

_Light._

She hadn’t left a lantern lit, but there it was, flame in cloudy glass atop the low table by her bedside-- 

And beside it on that table a teacup, gently steaming, the smell of ginger, turmeric, mint... 

_Pained._

Jaina sat up with a jolt, squinting against the answering throb in her skull, looking around-- 

To find her smallclothes lying bunched up in the middle of the floor. 

For a moment she could do nought but stare. 

Then all the blood in her body rushed into her cheeks, and she sank back into the furs with a groan. 

_What have I done?_

Oh Tides, what _did_ she do? She remembered Thrall… _disrobing,_ to the extent that he did, and the dance, and how Tides-damn _awkward_ she’d been, but… not what she’d _said._

Fuck. 

This was bad. This was very, very bad. 

Her _first day_ as a member of the Horde, and she’d already embarrassed herself in front of the Warchief.

 _Potentially._ **_Potentially_ ** _embarrassed yourself, Jaina. You need to stay calm, and just try to remember._

Alright. She hadn’t been truly inebriated until the firewater was passed around for the third time, and shortly after Thrall had leapt down to join the dancers. Everyone would have been focused on that, rather than her, so even if she _had_ behaved in a manner unbefitting of her station, no one would have witnessed it. 

...except for Pained. 

Jaina’s head hurt. 

With shaking arms and a churning stomach, she pushed herself up into a sitting position, and reached for the tea.

And paused. 

There was a piece of parchment beside it-- covered in the elegant curves of Pained’s handwriting. 

Oh dear. 

Jaina reached for it, queasy, and then thought better of it. 

She picked up the tea instead, and sighed as the warmth of it passed through the ceramic into her hands. 

Which gave her pause once again.

It was _cold_ in here, and there was no magic in the mug. Pained couldn’t have left this here more than fifteen minutes ago. 

Hrm. 

Jaina took a small sip. Ginger and mint bloomed across her tongue, and warmed her stomach, chasing away just the slightest bit of queasiness. 

She turned her attention to the letter.

_My Lady,_

_Worry not. I was close by all night, and well I admit that some of your behavior_ **_may_ ** _have been embarrassing had it been witnessed by others, it was not._

_This is partially due to Lieutenant Hierra’s facial scars, which are quite fetching by Orcish standards. He also drank quite a lot._

Oh no.

_Though nothing truly inappropriate transpired, you may wish to refrain from bringing him to diplomatically important events where an abundance of both alcohol and eligible orcs will be present._

_As for your dance with the Warchief: I know not what was said between you._

Relief eased the tension in Jaina’s shoulders. And her gut.

If Pained hadn’t been able to hear, then neither had anyone else.

 _However,_ she went on, and Jaina’s stomach clenched once more, _your haste in retiring from the celebration will have been noted. You may wish to invent an explanation._

Right. Overcome by the strength of Orcish liquor, perhaps? That would certainly make her allies feel good about their own tolerance… but it would also make _her_ seem weaker. 

Ugh.

She took a gulp of tea, and forced herself to breathe slowly. 

_I am here if you wish to talk about it. Inconvenient attraction to one’s superiors can be distressing-- I know this firsthand._

What did _that_ mean? 

_Ask me about Shandris Feathermoon sometime._

Oh. 

_As I write this it is mid-morning. You are expected in the throne room at half noon. Mayana Miller has requested an audience with you, regarding information she collected while in Darnassus. She and Elise await in your tower in Theramore._

Alright, she could do that via scrying orb… 

Fuck. What would she ever do without Pained? 

And would Pained stay, now that her charge was a member of the Horde? She’d given no indication that it changed things for her, but she wasn’t always easy to read…

_One thing at a time, Jaina._

  
  


*****

  


“Your Ladyship!” Mayana beamed at her through the linked scrying orbs. “You’re lookin’ right rosy-cheeked for someone who partied all night.” Her grin turned cheeky. “Make any _friends?”_

Jaina smirked at her boldness. “Good morning, Mayana. How was the celebration in Theramore? Seduce any married women?”

“Oi, that was one time!” Mayana puffed up indignantly. “And she came t’the tavern all by her lonesome, what was I _supposed_ to--” 

“Yana.” Elise, visible over her shoulder, looked down with fond exasperation. 

“Right, right." She waved her lover off, eyes still on Jaina. "Yeah, it was fun. Dunno how much of it was people celebrating joining the Horde, though. Sure, I saw a few blokes waving red flags, but…” Mayana paused, a grinned. “Heh. Anyway, I think folks mostly just needed an excuse to let loose, after ev’rything that’s happened recently. But I did meet plenty of people who were really happy for it. And I interviewed’em!” 

With that she ducked out of sight, and reappeared with a thick leather-bound book which she placed on the desk with a _thunk_ that shook the scrying orb. 

Then she looked up at Jaina with uncharacteristic nervousness. “...well?” 

Jaina couldn’t contain her smile. “Aegwynn, would you mind…?”

“Of course.” Her chamberlain’s unseen hand raised the orb off the desk and held it over the book so that Jaina could read the words on its cover:

**Night-Elves and Warchiefs and Demons: Oh My!**

**A chronicle of goings-on in Kalimdor**

**as recorded by Mayana Miller**

“You…” Hm. “Are you… sure about that title?”

 _“Thank_ you,” said Elise.

Mayana groaned. “Not you, too.” 

Jaina did her best not to fawn over them. “What goings-on have you recorded, exactly?” 

_“Well,”_ Mayana leaned forward, suddenly intent, “First I was just learning what I could about the Kal’dorei, yeah? Their history and whatnot. But then I realized they’d _fought_ the Legion before-- that it’s all part of the same story. So I started writing down the conversations I had, like proper interviews. What d’you think about ‘The War of the Ancients’ as a title for the first part?” 

“That’s… actually rather good.”

Mayana turned to Elise. “Ha! What’d I tell ya?”

“I never disagreed.” 

“Anyway,” --she turned back to Jaina-- “First there’s that bit, then my account of the Third War, coming t’Kalimdor, Hyjal… all that. But _then_ I came back to Theramore! So now I’ve got the invasion, the embassies, that business with the cultists, and joining the Horde! All from the mouths of the people. ‘Course now I need to interview some folks about what the celebration was like in Orgrimmar…” She trailed off, tapping her chin. 

Jaina sat back on the mound she’d made of her furs. “That sounds... quite comprehensive.”

Mayana beamed. 

“May I ask what you want me to do with it?”

“Nothing!” Said Mayana. “Well, ‘cept for maybe your help, getting it printed? Folks down at the press are real busy, but if you could put in a word fer us--”

Elise pressed a kiss to Mayana’s cheek, effectively diverting her train of thought. “What Mayana means to say,” She intoned, “Is that we would like to have many copies. For the Eastern Kingdoms.”

Jaina blinked. 

Right, Elise had stated her intention to travel the world, but… 

“You… intend to distribute this to the people of the Alliance?”

“Yup!” Said Mayana. “Exactly! The King might have a bone t’pick with you, but that doesn’t mean the people do-- and even _if_ they do, it’s not like they’ve heard the whole story, ‘ave they?” 

That was… why hadn’t she thought of that, before?” 

“Very well,” said Jaina. “Aegwynn, please write to the printmaster in my stead.”

“As you wish,” said the older woman, from out of sight. 

“When do you intend to embark?” Jaina asked the odd pair. “You will need a sturdy ship for such a voyage, and I’m afraid Theramore has none to spare.” 

“Right, but that’ll change soon enough, won’t it?” 

Behind Mayana, Elise’s lips curled into the faintest frown. 

“I intend to see that it does,” said Jaina, “But the terms and timing of how _quickly_ it changes will depend on a great many factors.” 

If Elise approved of that response, she neither said nor showed it. 

“Right, yeah.” Mayana nodded sagely. 

Elise smiled fondly. 

Jaina wondered how Ngashk and Tsaadu were doing. 

Then the wondering brought heat to her cheeks again, and she abandoned it. 

Hm. Wrynn would not take kindly to foreigners spreading a narrative that challenged his own. She would have to send protectors with them… 

Unless the Forsaken joined the Horde. Then their spies could see to Mayana and Elise’s wellbeing… 

But she could make that plan later. 

For now, she had a meeting to attend.

  
  


*******

  
  


Jaina-- or Lady Frostfire, rather, arrived first.

Lady Frostfire, leader of the newest addition to the Horde.

With whom Thrall had danced shirtless last night. 

And less-than-subtly admired her form. And her eyes. And those _freckles…_

He found himself grateful for the gauntlet of discomfort and embarrassment that was his ongoing acclimation to orcish culture. 

It had made him rather practiced at hiding his reactions. 

“Lady Frostfire!” He rose from his throne, smiling warmly. “Welcome,” he said in Common.

Jaina looked up at him, her sky-blue eyes wide, and for a brief moment Thrall thought he saw _trepidation_ in her gaze. 

But then she smiled brightly back, thumped her free hand to her chest in an orcish salute, and responded in Urukath. “Well met, Warchief. I… hope my early departure did not... _sour_ the festivities.”

“Of course not!” He gestured to one of the ornate stools arranged in a semicircle before his throne. “Please, make yourself comfortable.”

Jaina strode to one of the stools with the straight-backed poise of a warrior, and with an effortless-looking flick of her hand, made her staff stand on its own beside her. Then she sat, smooth and elegant, crossing her legs and interlacing her small, skilled fingers.

Thrall swallowed dryly, and returned to his throne. 

That instant of hesitation… had he made her uncomfortable last night? He couldn’t _ask_ that, not outright, not without letting on more than would be appropriate. 

He was her _commander_ first, now, and her friend second.

The thought was… disappointing. 

“I will admit I was a bit surprised by your departure,” he said in Common, to make it easier for her. “I do hope it had nothing to do with anyone’s behavior-- I know we discussed culture shock, but…” 

“Oh, no!” She held up a hand as if to ward off the very thought. “Of course not! I was delighted by everything I witnessed.” Then her eyes widened, and her next words were almost hurried. “It was truly wonderful to have such a glimpse into the traditions of other peoples. I’m afraid the historical rivalry between Kul Tiras and the Zandalari have made my homeland somewhat xenophobic-- to say nothing of the mainland. I’ve been quite exposed to Thalassian culture, of course, but compared to your own, that’s still quite similar to that of humans. But no! No one’s behavior had anything to do with it.”

Thank the Spirits.

“Then…” He leaned forward, forearms-on-thighs. “Are you well?”

“Completely. You need not worry, Warchief -- it was simply quite an exhausting day.” A smirk teased the edge of her pink lips. “Is that armor so light to you that it does not tire you?” 

“I’m used to it, he said. “It’s an important symbol, and… it reminds me of Orgrim.” 

Jaina’s expression sobered, and Thrall immediately regretted bringing it up. 

“Beyond that,” he said, “It makes me feel safe. I’m sure you understand, wreathed in magic as you are.” 

Jaina smiled curiously. “Ah. I suppose the elements have whispered to you of my frost spells.” 

Thrall chuckled. “You’ll adjust to the heat soon enough, don’t worry.” 

“I certainly hope so,” she said, nodding deferencially… and Thrall had to suppress a frown. They’d never had such a stilted conversation before. But perhaps their usual rapport would re-emerge, once they’d both adjusted to this new state of affairs… 

He realized, with dawning horror, that he’d been regarding her wordlessly for several moments.

Saurfang chose that moment to enter. 

“Warchief. Chieftain.” He saluted Thrall, then Jaina, and took his seat.

“Is there truly no orcish word close to ‘Lady’?” she asked in Common. “I’m flattered, it’s just that my position is significantly different than what I understand the role of an orcish chieftain to be.” 

Saurfang grunted in passive understanding-- and Jaina, to her credit, didn’t seem bothered by it. Thrall knew it was his letters to her that had told her of such cultural nuances, but… it still stoked a bit of warmth in him, to see her acclimating so well. 

She was one of his people, now. 

That… there was relief, in that. Optimism. 

Vol’jin arrived soon after Saurfang, with Tsaadu close behind, to act as an interpreter. Dark bruises splotched the lighter blue of her neck, stark against her bone necklaces. Thrall smirked, already looking forward to teasing Ngashk about it. For someone so popular with women, she could be surprisingly bashful. 

Cairne was next into the throne room, Baine at his side.

Gazlowe, Chief Engineer and leader of the Goblin tradefolk, arrived ten minutes late slurping a nopal-and-kajamite smoothie. As usual. 

He didn’t even bring any for the rest of them.

Thrall masked his displeasure behind his voice of command. 

“Let us begin.” 

Immediately, all of them sat a bit straighter, and gave their full attention. 

...save for Jaina. Rather than meet his eye, she was looking at the Doomhammer at his feet. Why…? 

No. He could inquire later. They had pressing matters to attend to.

“Tell me,” he said in Common, “Of the hearts of our people. How do the feel, now that Theramore is part of the Horde?” 

Cairne’s voice rumbled out across the room, and Tsaadu’s slightly after, translating his words.

“Most of what the Tauren know of humans comes to us from the orcs and trolls who have fought them. And so we are wary. But we look to the fruits of our partnership with the orcs and the trolls, and look forward to what Theramore will bring to the Horde.” 

Thrall expected as much-- but it still lifted the slightest weight from his shoulders to hear it.

“And what of the Darkspear?” He asked. 

Vol’jin glanced to Tsaadu. She nodded. He spoke. 

“The Echo Isles don’t have high walls to protect them. But now we no longer have to fear Theramore. And if Theramore can help put ships between us and the Alliance…” 

He trailed off, and said no more. 

“Saurfang,” said Thrall, “Have you spoken with the Chieftains?” 

Tsaadu, standing between Cairne, and Vol’jin, began speaking in hushed tones. 

“I have, Warchief.” Saurfang leaned forward, fingers folded over the butt of his axe. “The Warsong stand firmly beside the inclusion of Theramore. Most are uncomfortable with allowing humans into Orgrimmar, but none deny the practicality, or contest your decision. The Bleeding Hollow are even more reluctant, and many of them abstained from the celebration, but they too agree with our reasoning, and will defend Theramore if called to.” 

Thrall hummed his approval. 

Jaina fidgeted in the corner of his eye, adjusting her posture. 

“The Kor’kron stand with you, out of more than obligation. Ngashk’s word has been valuable.” 

“As we hoped it would be,” said Thrall. “What of the Shattered Hand?”

“They are not happy with it, but they accept it.” 

“And the Blackrock?” They were the most numerous. 

“Divided. The old grudges run deep among them, but not so strongly as to compel true dissent. And the prospect of Theramore sharing its knowledge of shipbuilding is compelling to them.” 

“I thought so,” said Thrall. “Which is why it will be the first subject of this meeting. Lady Frostfire, what have you to say about this?”

Jaina met his eye only briefly before looking to the other leaders. “I will be honest: building a true navy will require a great deal of lumber, and I am wary of what reaction so much logging might provoke from the Kal’dorei.”

“As we all should be,” said Thrall. 

Saurfang grunted. 

“However,” Jaina continued, “I cannot deny the necessity, or the urgency. Warchief, High Overlord, you have seen the devastation even a few warships can inflict… and I suspect that Kul Tiras attacked with only five ships because they could _spare_ only five ships. Their fleet is thinned and battle-weary, and both the south sea pirates and the Zandalari have been trying to exploit that for years. But Kul Tiras will not forget, and it will not forgive. They will try again-- and when they do, we must be ready.” 

She hesitated then, brows furrowing, eyes skipping from Saurfang, to Vol’jin, to Thrall… and there was determination in her gaze.

“I strongly advise we open negotiations with the Kal’dorei as soon as possible.” 

“I agree with both points,” he told her, “Which is why I have decided to appoint you, Lady Frostfire, First Admiral of the Horde.” 

Jaina’s eyes went wide.

  


*******

  


She stared up at him, lost for words, his own ringing in her ears. 

_Admiral._

Thankfully, he wasn’t done talking. 

“You will oversee the construction, recruitment, and training of our navy. When it is battle-ready, if you so wish, you may appoint a successor and step down. But right now we need someone the Horde respects and trusts to do this work. We need _you.”_

With that he looked down at her from his throne, expectantly. She could feel the others looking too, but… 

_First Admiral._

How long ago had she given up on ever commanding a fleet? Of ever rising to the challenge of her ancestors? 

Jaina opened her mouth, and closed it again. 

Oh Tides, she was tearing up. 

“I…” Fuck. 

What could she even say to that? 

_You honor me?_

_I’ll do my best?_

No. 

Jaina stood, looked Thrall in his stormy blue eyes, thumped her chest, and said: 

“Dabu.” 

_I serve._

“We will have a navy to rival that of Kul Tiras,” she said, voice gaining strength. “To rival that of Zandalar. I… I will personally negotiate with the leaders of the Kal’dorei to secure the lumber we need. I will recruit the finest shipwrights and gunsmiths of Orgrimmar. Saurfang. Vol’jin. Cairne. Will you pledge troops to this effort?”

“I will,” said Saurfang, whose people were the most numerous.

“Aye,” said Vol’jin, whose people knew the sea. 

“Thunder Bluff is with you,” said Cairne, whose druids could hasten the growth of trees.

“Gazlowe,” Jaina turned to the Chief Engineer, “Are your people familiar with black powder?” 

His eyes lit up. “We can _get_ familiar real fast.”

“Good. Prepare your alchemists to meet with mine.” She turned back to Thrall. 

He was smiling at her. 

With no idea what she’d done last night. 

Jaina did her best to ignore the heat in her cheeks, and said: ““The bones that adorn the great gate, that support rooftops and canopies across the city-- they came from whales, yes?”

“They did.” 

“I will need to see the vessels with which those whales were hunted.” 

“Of course.” Thrall looked to the other leaders. “Saurfang and Gazlowe will accompany you… but there is something else we must discuss first.” 

“Of course.” With a final, deferential nod, Jaina sat. 

Thrall sat back in his throne, features stark and strong in the firelight. For a long moment he seemed to consider, the only sound the flutter of flames. 

Then:

“It seems the Forsaken have grown impatient with our deliberations.”

...what?

All of Jaina’s confidence scattered like leaves in the wind. 

_Those who do not stand with the Forsaken stand against us._

“What word from Undercity?” Asked Saurfang. 

Thrall didn’t look at him. 

Only at Jaina. 

“They bid us prepare for a diplomatic visit,” he said. “The Banshee Queen is coming to Orgrimmar.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> :D  
> We're getting to the good part. 
> 
> Next: THE DARK LADY


	12. The Dark Lady

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Frostfire 12: The Snarkening

There was something deeply thrilling about watching a ship take shape, plank by plank. One part the satisfaction of creation, one part complex coordination, and one part the _promise_ of it— of freedom, of discovery, of wind and waves and sun and salt and shanties… 

Tides. She hadn’t even realized how badly she’d missed this until it was back within her grasp. 

Until Thrall _gave_ it back to her. 

He stood beside her now, on the edge of the eastern mesa, looking down at Orgrimmar’s first proper shipyard.

Jaina couldn’t even find it in herself to be embarrassed or nervous about his proximity. Not when _this_ was happening before her eyes.

It was another canyon, really, shaman-carved deep and broad into an especially solid section of shoreline, sloping gently to the sea. In it, swarming with workers of almost every known sapient race, sat the skeleton of a great galleon. 

Human and trollish carpenters worked together to shape and sand the collosal planks. Orcs and tauren worked the winches, lifting pieces into place faster than Jaina had ever seen it done. Goblins, small and dextrous, climbed up and down the half-formed vessel with hammers, nails, and buckets of pitch. 

It took a Kul Tiran shipyard two years to build a galleon. 

This one might well be seaworthy in twelve months.

And they hadn’t even involved any mages yet. 

A fleet. 

She was going to command a _fleet._

She was... going to be _responsible_ for a fleet. 

For as many ships as they could make, each with at _least_ two hundred souls aboard...

And here she was standing here _gawking_ when she should be reading up on naval tactics, interviewing sailors, meeting with captains both active and retired— 

A deep, resounding horn blast rang out over the mesas… and the Knot returned to Jaina’s stomach. 

The _Banshee’s Wail_ had been sighted. 

From the tallest watchtower, the horizon was roughly twelve leagues out. 

A normal frigate would need at two hours to close that distance under ideal conditions… but nothing about _any of this_ was normal. 

Very soon, Sylvanas Windrunner would set foot in Orgrimmar. 

At least… whatever was left of Sylvanas Windrunner. 

Fuck. 

Jaina closed her eyes, and forced herself to breathe. She focused on the clear, clean smell of the sea, the sound of chisels and hammers echoing up from below, the call of gulls and wind-riders… 

“Lady Frostfire?” 

Yes.

She could not be Jaina. Not today. Only the Lady. The champion. 

Frostfire. 

So she took a deep breath, stood tall, and turned. 

“Warchief.” 

He stood in a dip in the rock, deep enough that it brought them nearly eye-to-eye. 

When there was plenty of level ground around them. 

Why had he chosen to…?

“We should return to the Hold,” he said. 

Right. 

That was the plan— for Saurfang to meet _her_ at the docks, and escort her into the city, showing off its grandeur, its strength, and finally into Grommash Hold, to stand before the Warchief and state her case. 

A display of power. Primal. Petty. Necessary.

“After you,” she said.

*****

Eighty minutes. 

The Banshee’s Wail reached the harbor in eighty minutes. 

Enchantments on the ship, perhaps? The Forsaken ambassadors said there were dozens of mages at their Queen’s command… but mages weren’t Tidesages. 

Was it just a product of undeath? The ship wouldn’t be weighted down by months worth of food and freshwater. Even the _crew_ might be underweight by living standards, and without the need for rest, they could keep the ship moving with a skeleton crew. 

Jaina snorted— and immediately covered her mouth. 

Thrall and Cairne glanced up from their hushed conversation. Jaina saw the moment their surprise shifted to worry, and she averted her gaze, quietly clearing her throat. 

They were all here, now— Warchief and High Chieftain standing before the throne, Vol’jin seated beside it, Tsaadu standing poised at his side… and no Kor’kron in sight; they could defend themselves quite well if the need arose, and the absence of guards cast an illusion of trust. 

Jaina had pointed out that the Dark Lady was several centuries too experienced to be fooled by such things, but Saurfang could be stubborn as a rock sometimes. 

By now, he would have already met _Her_ at the docks. Accompanied by a very tense Nazgrel, and the most impressively battle-scarred of the Kor’kron. 

Jaina wondered how Ngashk felt about being stationed in Theramore while Tsaadu was here, facing whatever might come of the Banshee Queen’s visit. 

Since the night of the celebration, the two had seemed to maintain a professional distance, but had it truly been a singular tryst, or were they just being discreet? And even if they weren’t… _entangled,_ surely Ngashk must feel some discomfort at being so far from someone she was sworn to protect. 

Jaina was quite aware of the… _vicariousness_ behind her curiosity. 

But who could blame her? Both were quite lovely, and that _contrast_ between them— in color, in physique, in _size…_

Ah. 

Bollocks. 

Footsteps. 

Just one set. 

Jaina took a deep breath.

A Kor’kron runner strode into the room, thumping their leather-clad chest—

“Golgonnashar.” _Warchief._ “Khulun’goraak.” _Honored leaders._ “D’alluz.” _They come._

Thrall and Cairne exchanged a look, brief and weighted. The Warchief ascended to his throne. The High Chieftain took his stool beside Vol’jin. 

Jaina sat still as a deer in torchlight. Her blood ran cold. Her skin burned hot.

And then a cool breeze whispered around her, as soothing as it was surprising. 

She glanced over…. and found Thrall looking back, expression carefully solemn— save for a soft question in her eyes. 

She swallowed. Pulled her shoulders back. Nodded. 

The faintest encouraging smile ghosted over his lips. Then it was gone, and his eyes were on the darkened door. 

Again came footsteps.

Jaina recognized Saurfang’s, as solid as the man himself… and behind it several lighter sets, slightly dragging, and the rattle of more than one suit of armor—

The room grew cold. 

She saw Thrall’s brow furrow, saw his hands grip the arms of his throne— 

Saurfang stepped into the room, stepped forward, stepped aside for the tall, dark figure behind him—

And Jaina’s breath caught in her throat. 

Her **_eyes._ **

Gone was the warm glow of the Sunwell. In its place was bloody red, like twin embers smouldering deep in her sunken sockets. 

Gone was the sun-kissed skin, the tumbling golden hair. Her face was gaunt and ghostly, hollow cheeks marred by dark tear-streaks. The hair that spilled from her purple hood was thin and faded. The firelight glowed right through her long, batlike ears. 

She was utterly expressionless… even as her burning gaze found Jaina. 

It took every ounce of Jaina’s courtly training not to flinch back— but if Sylvanas recognized her, she gave no sign. 

No. Not Sylvanas. 

Sylvanas Windrunner was dead. 

The spiked, skull-studded armor, the longbow wrought from spinal cords, the cold, restless _pressure_ that filled the room… 

This was the Dark Lady. 

As well-dressed corpses filed in behind her, she surveyed the room, leader by leader, appraising... 

If not for the steady sweep of her gaze, she might have seemed a grim statue. Unmoving. Unbreathing. 

When at last she brought one gauntleted fist to her chest, Jaina almost jumped. 

The Dark Lady bowed, just slightly, from the hip. Then she parted her cracked, bloodless lips, and in a voice cold and hard as ice, said:

“Warchief.” 

“Your Majesty,” Thrall nodded. “Welcome to Orgrimmar.”

Jaina would not have been able to keep her voice as even as he did. 

“It is quite the fortress,” the Dark Lady replied. “I look forward to seeing it tested.” 

You could have heard a pin drop. 

Thrall, to his credit, only blinked. “Do you? We are in the habit of praying such a day never comes.” 

“And while you do,” she said, “The Alliance readies its wrath.” 

“Do you offer us proof of this?” 

“You know what I offer. I am here for your answer.” 

Saurfang growled, rough and guttural. “You are a guest here. You will show respect for—”

**“For whom?”**

Her lips barely moved— but Jaina felt the words in her chest, saw the torch-flames flutter and shrink—

“For the Warchief?” An edge crept into the Dark Lady’s voice. “Did I not send scores of my people into peril to stage a _demonstration_ for him? Am I not here in person? Or did you mean for yourself, Varok Saurfang? You who were second to Doomhammer when the Horde attacked Quel’thalas? Who my kin would roll in their graves to see me even speaking to?” 

Saurfang stood then, slowly, as if to draw out the reveal of his imposing physique. 

_“But,”_ —those horrible eyes flicked to Jaina— “Lady Frostfire could say the same, could she not?” 

Jaina’s heart _thudded_ in her chest.

“And yet there she sits and here I stand, offering you a wealth of secrets and the fealty of an army unburdened by hunger, fatigue, or fear _._ ”

Jaina couldn’t move. 

Thrall’s voice was commanding, when he wished it.

But _this…_

This was command incarnate. 

“You need us, Warchief… and we need the Horde.” The Queen’s eyes blazed brighter, like coals before a bellows. She clasped her hands behind her back. Firelight danced over the silver accents of her breastplate. “Now. Have you questions? Or shall I remove the distraction of my presence, that you may deliberate freely? I am aware that our appearances can sometimes… _undermine_ higher thought.” 

For a long, tense moment, Thrall simply held her gaze, unwavering. 

Then his hands, which had been gripping the arms of his throne, relaxed. 

“It is... _maddening_ to be seen as a monster due to things one cannot control,” he said. “A frustration the people of the Horde know well.” 

“Such diplomatic words. This truly _is_ a new Horde, isn’t it?” 

Thrall’s eyes narrowed ever-so-slightly. 

“If only our curse was reduced to odd complexions and bad memories.” 

“You _dare?”_ Saurfang snarled. 

She didn’t even spare him a glance. 

“Varok.” Thrall’s tone brooked no argument. 

The High Overlord bared his teeth, clenched his fists… and sat. 

Putting the negotiations above his pride. 

“Your Majesty,” said Thrall, “Everything the Horde knows of undeath was either witnessed by orcs who fought alongside Gul’dan’s death knights or by citizens of Theramore who narrowly escaped the Scourge. I understand why you ordered your ambassadors to withhold information about their curse… but if we are to truly consider an alliance with the Forsaken, we must know who you are.” 

“Have you not already guessed, Warchief?” The Dark Lady’s voice grew ever colder, such that the fine hairs of Jaina’s nape stood on end, and she had to crush the urge to back away, to find something warm and wrap herself in it—

“We are vengeance.” 

“Against the Lich King?” Thrall asked. 

“And against any who stand in our way.” 

“You speak of the Alliance.” 

“At the moment,” she said. “Yes.” 

“And what measures have you taken against them? What measures would you ask the Horde to take?” 

“Only what is necessary. My people are citizens of Lordaeron… but the Alliance sees only Scourge, and marches to reclaim the land by fire. And while they harass our southern borders, the real Scourge strike from the east and north. We are holding them both back, of course— but it leaves us little time or resources for other efforts. What we need is aid in defending our territory, that we may focus on things beyond mere survival.”

“Such as an invasion of Northrend?”

The Dark Lady’s eyes flared bright once more. “Both Horde and Alliance are but unions of disparate parts, forced and held together by fleeting necessity. The Scourge has no such divisions. No votes to collect, no honor to defend, no fragile identity to oh-so-carefully maintain. Only _hunger…_ and sooner or later, it _will_ come for us all. Will you reject the partnership of those best equipped to fight it?” 

“We have decided nothing yet,” said Thrall. 

“And so here I am.” She raised her arms to either side, displaying the wicked claws of her gauntlets. “I will tell you one thing about undeath: it does not foster patience. Yes or no, Warchief. Friend or foe. Make your choice.”

With that she turned, ragged cloak swirling behind her, and strode from the room.

Her entourage followed, soundless save for the clank of armor and the rasp of fabric. 

Jaina let out a breath she didn’t realize she’d been holding… and perhaps she was simply overwhelmed, but she could have _sworn_ she smelled the faintest hint of tulips in the air. 

Saurfang huffed. 

Vol’jin chuckled. 

Jaina just stared at the empty doorway, that crimson gaze burned into her mind. 

“Runaz-nukh,” said Thrall, “Il Dalaranok uraaka gish-og rau gur kussu?”

_How great a change is this, from the woman you encountered in Dalaran?_

“I…” she swallowed dryly, and switched to Urukath. “Fear I cannot say. We met at a…” Damn. 

“A ball,” she finished in Common. 

A ball where she was the youngest person present. A ball where Sylvanas _rescued_ her from Kael’thas’ attentions, gracious and mischievous and so devastatingly handsome… 

Jaina’s heart ached. 

“I never saw how she approached diplomacy… especially not in… such circumstances.” 

“Desperation is a powerful thing,” Thrall said in Common— and as Tsaadu interpreted his words for Vol’jin and Cairne, Jaina found herself both grateful and ashamed. 

Her grasp of Urukath was perhaps the best of any human… but at the end of the day, it was still a tongue utterly unlike those of Azeroth. 

Saurfang lowered his eyes in deference… but a muscle flexed in his jaw. “All the same. If the Dark Lady means to join the Horde, she must respect our traditions.” 

“I agree. But it will be a greater change for a former High Elf than for any troll or tauren… and her curtness does not change the facts. The Forsaken would be powerful allies. What say you?”

“Warchief…” Saurfang’s face was knotted with turmoil. “I know what it is to… to live with innocent blood on my hands. I _feel_ for the Forsaken, but…” He growled again, but it seemed more directed at himself than anyone else. “How can we trust them? Even Frostfire, who saw more of the Scourge than any of us, does not pretend to understand how undeath affects the mind. The spirit.” 

Creases formed between Thrall’s bushy brows. “Lady Frostfire?”

Jaina chewed her lip, a dozen points swimming close to the surface of her mind… 

“With respect, High Overlord…” Tides, it was still intimidating to address these people as equals— “Do you trust Theramore the same way you trust your own people?” 

Saurfang frowned. 

“I think not. I think that what you trust in is that Theramore’s common sense outweighs whatever grudges still linger. You trust that we have the common sense to know we need the Horde.”

Saurfang grunted in a way Jaina had learned meant _go on._

“Furthermore, the Forsaken…” She sighed. “The Forsaken would strengthen the Horde more than Theramore ever could.” 

“I would consider it even if they were weak,” Thrall interjected, “They have nowhere else to turn... and no ocean between them and those that would do them harm.” 

Jaina nodded. “Yes. They are both more powerful and more desperate for allies than Theramore.”

Saurfang’s frown deepened. “And what of their leader? If what her emissaries say is true, her very spirit was twisted into a weapon. _Remade_ in a way most of the Forsaken were not.”

Jaina didn’t have to deliberate, this time. She’d thought this over too many times, in the past few weeks. 

“When she died, Sylvanas Windrunner was five hundred and eighty-four years old. She had commanded great warbands for over two centuries, leading them to victory after victory against the Amani Empire. Whatever else she has become, the Dark Lady is a more seasoned general than any of us… and she now leads an army without the limitations of the living— an army that could divert the Alliance’s wrath away from Kalimdor. _If_ we can get our fleet battle-ready before the Alliance strikes, the odds will be close… but with the Forsaken on our side, they would be in our favor.” She stopped for breath. “I think… I think we have no choice but to ally with them— if not welcome them to the Horde in full.” 

Saurfang looked pensive, but voiced no argument. 

Thrall let Jaina’s words settle for a moment, then said: “Vol’jin.” 

The troll drummed his fingers on the shaft of his ceremonial spear.

“Atua wassa’jin oondasta Gul’dan.” 

“The High Overlord,” Tsaadu translated, “Remembers Gul’dan’s abominations.”

“Saaka warr-lok chakari tiouf, haraka-ju.”

“Warlocks riding stolen bodies for a few short years,” she said, and as Vol’jin went on: “This makes him wary, and rightly so. But the Darkspear endured Gurubashi tyranny for almost a thousand years. We witnessed the unholy fruits of the empire’s corruption. The foul things wrought as it fractured and fell. I won’t pretend to understand undeath… but I know nothing good can come of necromancy. Ally with these poor souls if you see fit, Warchief— but keep them at an arm’s length, and watch them well.” 

Thrall rubbed a hand over his jaw, and scratched his beard. “Cairne?” 

“I am with Vol’jin,” said the High Chieftain, in Urukath. “ _And_ with Lady Frostfire. We would be fools not to pursue this alliance, but _also_ to give our trust too freely. That said… the Forsaken have been the victims of a terrible crime. We must balance caution with compassion. I mean to invite the ambassadors to Thunder Bluff, that our druids may study their curse. That will be difficult if we make enemies of them.” He smirked slightly, but his eyes were worried. “But this is a matter of the Horde’s safety. Our fortunes in the wars to come. Ultimately, Warchief, it is your decision.”

Thrall let fall his hand, back to the arm of his throne, and for an immeasurable moment sat unmoving save for the rise and fall of his chest, eyes deep in shadow beneath his strong brow. 

Then he spoke, and changed the world. 

  


*****

  


It took them four days to finalize the articles of alliance. 

Drafting them in Common, translating them into Urukath, Zandali, and Taurahe, reviewing and revising according to compromise after compromise, and finally, _finally_ signing the damn thing four times over… 

Jaina felt dead on her feet. 

And then immediately queasy for thinking that idiom. 

She felt _exhausted._

But it was done. 

The Forsaken were allied with the Horde. There was to be trade, mutual defense, sharing of information… 

And she was no longer the Horde’s sole hope for magical learning. Death, it seemed, did not snuff out such gifts. 

There was only one thing left to do, before she returned to Theramore… and despite all the monsters she’d slain, the challenges she’d overcome, _this…_

Her heart was pounding, hard and fast against her ribs. 

But it had to be done. 

So Jaina breathed deep, stood tall, and stepped out onto the ramparts of Grommash Hold. 

Right into the burning gaze of the Banshee Queen. 

She leaned back against the parapet, facing Jaina expectantly, eyes glowing out from the shadows of her hood. Her arms were crossed over her chest, steel claws pale in the moonlight.

“The Lady formerly known as Proudmoore,” she drawled. “To what do I owe the pleasure?” 

Jaina’s gut twisted.

Did she—? 

No. She could have gleaned that much from reports. It didn’t mean she _remembered._

But… what if she did? 

What if she _knew?_

 _Breathe, Jaina, just_ **_breathe—_ **

It took all her resolve to stand her ground, to not avert her eyes from that terrible gaze, to not draw back and hide from all the horrors that must lurk behind it, the fruits of her own _passiveness_ —

_Stop it, Jaina._

This wasn’t about her. 

It was about her people. 

It was about the Horde.

“Your Majesty,” she said, and almost winced at how weak her voice sounded, how uncertain— “I haven’t had a chance to thank you. For coming to Theramore’s aid in our time of need.”

The Queen said nothing. Just watched. 

“I know that it was primarily a diplomatic overture, but without it the city would likely have fallen… and I would be in a cell somewhere.” 

With that she bowed— just slightly, so as not to seem overly deferential, but a strong gesture all the same. 

“You have my deepest gratitude.” 

The Dark Lady stared at her for an moment. The she tilted her head ever-so-slightly to the right. 

In life, it may have been charming. 

In undeath, it was just… stiff. Forced. Unnatural. 

“Can it be?” Her voice was cold as ever, unfathomable rage trapped beneath thick ice… but somehow, lilting through it, was a faint note of _humor_ — “Lady Frostfire, Builder of Bridges, Bane of the Legion… _cowed_ by my presence?”

Jaina opened her mouth to deny it— and words failed her. She was transfixed, _trapped_ by the Queen’s attention— 

“I’m…” those lifeless lips pursed in consideration— the first hint of expression Jaina had yet seen from her. “What is it you say in Kul Tiras? _Chuffed?”_

“I…” Jaina clasped her hands behind her back to hide their shaking. “I am no longer Kul Tiran, Your Majesty.” 

Again the Dark Lady simply watched her, appraisingly. 

Was it simply assessment? Or was she _trying_ to unnerve—

“Neither are my people Lordaerian,” she said, “Nor Quel’dorei. Not any more. But the cultures in which we lived still shape us.” The glow of her eyes waxed brighter, casting a bloody sheen over her high cheekbones— 

“Those of us that remember, at least.” 

Jaina’s heart skipped a beat. Her blood turned to ice. 

“Was that all, Lady Frostfire?” 

Her stomach was in knots. 

“I…” Oh Tides. “No. I… I also wished to broach the subject of reconciliation between our peoples. Of reconnecting families.”

The Dark Lady’s eyes smouldered even brighter, even bloodier, and Jaina’s heart beat triple-time. 

“I know how the Alliance has responded to such efforts on your part,” she rushed out, “At least— I know what your ambassadors have told me. I cannot imagine the true pain of it. But I— I think you will find that recent events have fostered great open-mindedness in the people of Theramore.”

She swallowed, throat suddenly dry as Durotar. 

“It is merely a suggestion. I will understand if you think it unwise.” 

“I do not know the people of Theramore,” said the Queen. 

Right. Of course. “I would be honored to host Forsaken ambassadors.”

“No.” She looked away, idly surveying their surroundings through half-lidded eyes. The skin of her eyelids did almost little to conceal the glow. 

“If your people wish to know the Forsaken, they may come to Orgrimmar.” 

“Of course,” said Jaina— and had to stop herself from bowing, from saying _Your Majesty_ once again. They were political equals here, no matter how surreal or _wrong_ that seemed, no matter the Dark Lady’s aura of command. “I hope our peoples can be friends to one another.” 

Those bloody eyes narrowed. Flicked over Jaina’s face, searching, studying— 

“You really do, don’t you?” 

Jaina blinked. “Of course.” 

“Remarkable,” she said, as if expressing condolences. 

As if Jaina wasn’t already uneasy enough. 

But before she could consider it, the Dark Lady stepped away from the parapet, rising to her full, imposing height, and said: 

“Good night, Lady Frostfire.” 

Then she slipped past her, into the Hold, leaving Jaina alone with her guilt… and suddenly it was too much. 

She _knew._ How could Sylvanas even stand to be in Jaina’s presence, knowing she had the chance to stop _him_ and didn’t? Knowing she had a chance to prevent the fall of Quel’thalas and Lordaeron, the slaughter of countless thousands, and— 

And— 

Jaina’s stomach lurched. Her legs went weak and she swayed forward, catching herself on the parapet. 

Before her the Hold fell away, a sheer drop to the hard-packed valley floor, forty feet below. 

Had the ramparts not been built for orcish proportions, she might have felt unsafe.

She… _wanted_ to feel unsafe. 

All the suffering she’d wrought, and here she was, not a scratch on her. 

It was _wrong._

“My Lady,” Pained said softly. 

_My Lady._

All the blood on her hands… how could anyone stand to call her that? 

To follow her? 

To _protect her_ from—

From—

“Jaina.” 

Pained palmed her back, between her shoulder blades— and Jaina flinched, and then shuddered, and felt wetness slip down her cheek. 

She clenched her fists, bit her lip, but she couldn’t stop the shaking, or the tears, or the whimper that slipped out, making her sound so _weak—_

“Jaina,” Pained murmured, “It wasn’t your fault.” 

“You weren’t _there,_ Pained.” 

“No.” She moved her thumb, rubbing back and forth and Jaina didn’t _deserve_ this— “But I have heard what happened, and I know you. You are not one to lie to your people.”

“They— ” Jaina’s voice shook, and she gasped for air, “They weren’t there either.” 

“Jaina, look at me.” 

She couldn’t. She didn’t deserve to be looked at like she _knew_ Pained was looking at her, so soft and caring— 

“They say you were seventeen, when you followed him to Stratholme. Is that true?”

She shuddered. Squeezed her eyes shut. Nodded.

“Barely more than a child.” Pained stepped next to her, hand sliding up and over Jaina’s shoulder, squeezing, pulling her close. “They say you loved him.”

An ache pulsed in her chest. 

“Did you?”

“I…” She took a shaky breath. “I don’t know. I… I _thought_ I did, but… I thought I knew who he was, too.” 

“But you cared deeply for him. Trusted him.” 

Another shudder wracked her, and she slumped into Pained’s embrace. Again, she could only nod. 

“His decision must have shocked you. Confused you.”

Another sob. She turned, wrapping her arms around Pained and burying her face in the bodyguard’s shoulder. 

“What could you have done, Jaina? He was a Prince, backed by the law, surrounded by loyal knights.” 

“I could have tried harder t-to _change his mind!”_

“Could you have?” She said gently. “Truly?”

No. 

She’d been too shocked, too distraught, too afraid, but… 

“I should have seen the _signs,_ Pained!” 

Pained pulled away, grasping Jaina’s shoulders and bending down to look her in the eye. “You were young. Enamored. Older, wiser people than you have been blinded by affection, in circumstances _much_ less confusing.” Her face was contorted in phantom pain, her eyes pleading. “I know you want to believe you could have stopped it, Jaina. That you have control over such things. But you _didn’t._ Not back then. Arthas turned. Antonidas died. Sylvanas died. The Forsaken exist. Torturing yourself will not change that… but now you have the power to shape the world— to _better_ it. And you’ve already come so far. Do not let the past consume you. Let it _guide you.”_

Jaina stared, speechless. 

It was more than she’d ever heard Pained say in one go… and she realized, belatedly, that it had surprised her tears away. The guilt still sat like a knot of snakes in her stomach, but… 

“I don’t deserve you,” she whispered. 

“Maybe not.” Pained’s grip softened and slid down her arms, briefly squeezing her hands before falling away— “But I’m not here because of who deserves what. I am here to protect you, Jaina. Be it from assassins, cultists... or from your own demons. And I’m not going anywhere.” She smiled softly. “Except maybe inside. I have a bottle of Thalassian red I’ve been saving for an emergency, and you’re starting to shiver.” 

Oh. She was, wasn’t she?

Funny how a place could go from baking hot to frigid in just a few hours. 

“That…” Jaina sniffled. Wiped her eyes. “That sounds nice.”

The sentinel’s gentle hand once more found the space between her shoulder blades, and guided her back into the torchlit warmth of the hold. 

“Pained?

“Yes, My Lady?”

“Shandris Feathermoon?”

“...I knew I shouldn’t have written that.”

“Your _General,_ Pained?” Jaina teased. “I suppose I understand, having met her… but how _untoward.”_

“She wasn’t general yet! Just…” Long, purple ears drooped adorably. “...a captain.” 

Jaina stared, a smile tugging at her lips. She’d never seen Pained so expressive. 

“And what was your rank, then?”

“...sentinel,” Pained muttered. 

Jaina was grinning, now. “This I _have_ to hear.”

  


*****

Three firm knocks roused Jaina from her warm, sluggish doze. 

Except… no. It was _Pained_ who was warm— and at some point Jaina had cuddled into her side. They were slouched on the chaise Jaina had portaled in from Theramore, her bodyguard’s arm curled protectively around her shoulders… and Jaina noticed, in a calm, drowsy sort of way, that her own heart wasn’t beating fast. Nor was she flushed, nor… well. 

Just warm. Cozy. Protected. 

Huh. 

“You should get that,” Pained murmured. 

Jaina tried to blink some of the drowsyness away. “Cn y’hear who…?”

“I can.” There was a smirk in Pained’s voice. 

“...what?” 

“The Warchief.” 

Oh. 

Jaina sat up, suddenly fully alert. The hour was late, and the last few days had been just as tiring for Thrall as they’d been for her— whatever had brought him knocking must be urgent. 

With a yawn, she rose to her feet… and swayed. 

Right. She hadn’t really _eaten_ before they finished that bottle, had she? 

No matter. 

She stretched, arms toward the ceiling, and once more set her head up, her shoulders back. Then she pulled open the door, finding it easier than it had been before she started training with Pained. 

And there he was. 

Without his armor. 

And here she was, in her trousers and shirtsleeves. And a bit drunk. 

Shit.

She saluted. “Golgonnashar.” 

“Runaz-nukh.” 

He wore only a loose, sleeveless tunic, rawhide leggings stretched tight over his thick thighs and calves… and no shoes. 

He was barefoot on the cold stone of the tunnel. 

“I…” Thrall shifted his weight a bit, foot-to-foot. “The earth is… calmer, down here. After the past few days, it’s…” He frowned. 

Jaina blinked. Had she… ever _seen_ him falter like this? 

Thrall scratched the back of his neck. “To say ‘grounding’ would not be a pun in Urukath. Forgive me— I meant to speak with you earlier, but Nazgrel and the elder shamans are displeased with our… with _my_ decision.”

“There is nothing to forgive, Warchief. Lok’regar.” 

Again he paused, hesitant, the corded muscles of his forearm flexing as he opened and closed his right hand— 

“I am not here as your Warchief, Jaina. I am here as your friend.” 

Oh. 

The tension drained from her shoulders then, and her back… and she allowed herself to truly examine him. The redness of his eyes and the bags beneath, the slump of his broad shoulders, the creep of stubble up from his beard, the slight frizzing of his normally sleek braids…

“Are you…” Thrall wet his lips. His tongue was green (but why had she expected otherwise?). “Is there anything you need?”

He looked as tired as she felt— and yet he’d dragged himself down here just to make sure she was alright. 

Warmth bloomed in Jaina’s chest. 

“I…” It was rather hard to breathe, all of a sudden. “No, I… well.” Her hand came up of its own volition, twisting her braid— “The ability to hibernate would be nice.” 

Thrall blinked — and smirked. “I shall consult the druids.” 

And perhaps it was the wine she’d drunk, or the last vestiges of drowsiness, but without any thought save curiosity, Jaina asked: “How long _did_ it take you to start thinking in Urukath?” 

Thrall’s smirk grew into a smile, wide and bright, white fangs stark against the green of his skin… and then, for some reason, he tamped it down. Crossed his arms. Which, of course, just made them look thicker, and put his hands right at her eye level, in all their broad, callused glory. 

The warmth in Jaina’s chest began to spread— up into her cheeks, and down into— 

Fuck. 

_Light have mercy what is_ **_wrong_ ** _with me—_

“About a year,” he said. “Though it happened bit by bit, rather than all at once.” 

“Right.” Jaina fixed her gaze on his face. 

Which was the opposite of helpful.

Tides. 

Even his _tusks_ were handsome— long, sturdy, pleasantly curved… 

What was _happening_ to her?

“Of course,” she managed, but it was too late. Worry put a crease between his brows, a searching look in his eyes— 

“Are you alright, Jaina? That is— you’ve been invaluable these past few days, we couldn’t have done this without you, it’s just… the _look_ in your eyes, sometimes…” 

Jaina opened her mouth to reply, to reassure… and found she had to consider. 

She… hadn’t really known what to expect from the Dark Lady. 

And no, she never knew Sylvanas, but to see one of the most glorious heroes of her youth twisted into _that…_

It took something out of her. 

But it wasn’t _about_ her, any more than it was really about Sylvanas. 

It was about the Forsaken. Theramore. Durotar. The Horde. 

They had faced the grim reality, done what needed doing, and they were all stronger for it. 

She looked up into the stormy depths of Thrall’s eyes. Even down here in the dim tunnels they were bright, as if lit from within by his wit, his courage, his tenacity. 

And he trusted her. He’d said as much, shown as much at every turn…

Surely he saw some of that same strength in her.

Right? 

“I’m… shaken,” she said. “But I have endured far worse. I’ll be alright, Thrall.”

He let out a relieved breath, at that, but the look of worry didn’t entirely leave him.

“What about you?” She asked. “After Gul’dan, I can’t imagine the shamans are well-disposed toward the undead.”

He sighed. “Drek’thar has a look in his eyes too. Like I’m a wolf pup that got into the smokehouse.” 

A giggle escaped before Jaina could stop it. 

Thrall’s eyes widened, his smile returning in full, stunning force… 

Aaand now she was blushing. Again. Marvelous. 

“Do you…” Reign it in, Jaina— “Do you think they’ll come around? The shamans?”

“I hope so. It will depend on the Forsaken. Drek’thar understands our reasoning. It’s the undead he distrusts.”

“Right.” She crossed her arms. “Is there anything I can do to help, on that front?”

“Well…” Thrall paused— and then made a deep, throaty sound somewhere between a growl and a huff. 

It made her _ache._

“Forgive me,” he said. “I did not mean to trouble with such things so late.”

“It—” She swallowed, mouth suddenly dry— “It’s quite alright. I’ve started dreaming about trade meetings. It’s inescapable.”

Thrall chuckled. Very deeply. “At least _your_ advisors can’t literally visit your dreams.” 

Another horrid, traitorous giggle. 

This was bad. 

“Well, you can haunt them right back, can’t you?” 

A smirk. He was smirking now, full lips pulled asymmetrically over his tusks, eyes alight with mischief—

This was very, very bad. 

“Oh I’m tempted,” he said, “Believe me.” 

_Tides._

_You’re staring_ **_again_ ** _Jaina just say something say_ **_anything_ **—

“Why do we even bother with scrying orbs when we could just—” Sweet merciful _Light_ anything but _that—_ “Meet in our dreams?” 

Fucking hel. 

Thrall blinked, clearly surprised, and Jaina wanted to sink into the floor. Then his gaze sort of… _honed in_ on her face, her eyes, her—

Oh. 

Her lips. 

And his parted.

If anyone asked, it was the temperature that made her shiver. 

She _really_ hoped no one asked. 

“Shall we…” His voice was deeper, huskier, his broad chest swelling, shrinking— “...continue this conversation while we rest, then? I feel as if I could sleep for a year.” 

Tides be praised. 

“As do I.” Jaina wet her lips, averted her eyes— “Until the morrow, then?”

“Yes. We’ve a pack of aspiring mages eager to learn from you.”

“Right.” As if this week hadn’t been nerve-wracking enough. “What’s that herb the Darkspear chew for energy?”

“Earthroot?”

“Yes— is that one safe for humans?”

“I… hm.” Thrall frowned, and rubbed his beard. “I’ll have to check.”

“We really should put together a codex of such things. Before some poor orc poisons themself with human spices. Or vice versa.” 

Thrall smiled wearily, hands falling to his sides. “I think we can safely delegate that.”

“One can only hope,” she said, very studiously not looking at his arms. 

There was, of course, no part of him that was safe to look at. 

Especially not his face. 

Especially not with his eyes gone blue-grey in the dim light, and with that intense _focus_ in them, as if he had turned his far-sight to the confused, smitten depths of her—

“Until the morrow, then.” he said. 

Right. Yes. Good. 

Jaina saluted once more, bowing her head if only to escape those _eyes_ — “Warchief.” 

And then he lingered a moment more, shifting his prodigious weight ever-so-slightly… 

“Rest well, Lady Frostfire.”

“And you,” she managed. 

Then he turned, and with much less noise than a man his size should make, set off down the tunnel. 

Jaina stepped back, closed her chamber door, and slumped back against it. 

This was _entirely_ out of hand. 

Pained seemed to agree. 

She sat on the chaise, arms crossed, with a fist pressed to her mouth and a strained look in her eyes. 

Jaina screwed her eyes shut, and groaned. “I _know.”_

Pained sighed. 

“Be careful, My Lady.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So. Having already decided to explore an atypical relationship dynamic between Jaina and Sylv, I thought to myself: why not a different Sylvanas entirely?  
> Why must a woman be beautiful? Is it not enough that she be spooky, cunning, and not-to-be-fucked-with? 
> 
> Anyway, I know this is dialogue-heavy, but there will b more action in the next chap <3


	13. The Calm

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I finally did the thing!  
> Bit of a lull here, narrative wise, thus the name. Gotta give the supporting cast some love. 
> 
> Sorry this took so long! All my creative energy has been going into my original work.
> 
> HEADS UP: if I include your OC in this fic/series, they might not perfectly match the version you have in your head. This is so I can give them their own character arc in which they grow and change along with the main plot. Frostfire takes place right at the start of WoW, so if I introduce a character now that you made in Wrath/Cata/later, they probably won’t be a match for their future selves— yet.

Sixteen trolls, nine goblins, five orcs, and one tauren. Of all the citizens of the Horde with latent magical talent, these thirty-one volunteers had been vetted and approved by their respective chieftains to study under the mages of Theramore. 

Jaina idly wondered if the incidence of innate magic varied between species. 

They were of varying ages— the youngest being an orcish girl somewhere in adolescence, judging by her complexion and general lankiness, if not her demeanor. The others, most of them young adults, all wore looks of determination, but many of those looks were guarded in the way Jaina had come to recognize as nervousness about living amongst humans. 

But either the girl was a better actor than all the adults around her, or she wasn’t nervous in the slightest. Just resolute. Almost grimly so. 

The other outlier in age was a goblin man, his greying hair and beard shaped and trimmed with the sort of precision Jaina had only ever seen from vapid nobles, while his physique was one forged by decades of physical labor— perhaps carpentry, or engineering? 

The trolls, being the most numerous, ranged the most in age, from heavy laugh-lines to fresh faces. 

They stood before her on the hard, reddish earth of the Valley of Wisdom, dressed in their finest hides, harnesses, and jewelry. The trolls wore less, to expose their tattoos— Jaina saw the hook of a seasoned fisherman, the ravasaur of a proven hunter, and the turtle-shell pattern of a warrior. The orcs were the opposite, armor strapped over every joint of their bodies, though there _was_ a tendency to leave the abdominals and biceps exposed. And, being orcs, each of them had crafted the armor themselves— even unto the youngest of them. 

Claws, fangs, and tusks hung from beaded cords. Polished wood and hammered metal looped through ears and noses and lips. Cowrie shells and eagle feathers adorned spears, knives, and axes. 

Such was their regard for her; one wore only their best to meet with a chieftain. 

Jaina suddenly wished Thrall was there with her, if only to divert some of their reverence away from her. 

Slowly and deliberately, she raised her staff and tapped it twice against the hard-packed earth. 

Those who had been eying Mannoroth’s armor immediately snapped to attention. All of them did. 

Thirty-one fists struck thirty-one chests. 

“Oshu’ath,” she said, “Akhai targ’aam.” 

_Magic is not a thing one learns._

Oshu’ath. Spirit-song. 

Jaina wished more humans would learn Orcish, just so she could talk to someone about how beautiful it could be without them looking at her like she was mad. 

It would be impertinent to waste Thrall’s time with such idle fancies, after all. 

“The power that lives in each of you is a wild thing.” The Urukath rang rough and guttural in her throat. “For some, a grove in need of tending. For others, a beast in need of taming. For _all_ of you, doing so will be journey of dedication, and discipline. Your chieftains may have deemed you worthy for this, but they are no mages, and _I_ do not know you. So speak now, and tell me why you are here.” 

She was rather proud of herself for saying it all in Urukath. She had rehearsed, of course… which was why it was rather disorienting to hear a response come in heavily accented but perfectly intelligible Common. 

“First Admiral.”

That young orcish girl once more pressed her fist to the studded leather of her breastplate, and bowed her head. When she looked back up, it was with the sort of resolve Jaina had only ever seen in seasoned warriors. 

“I know the Fel.” The language was clearly difficult for her, her tongue almost fumbling the sounds, but she pressed on. “I have seen what it can do for its wielders, and _to_ them. It is power such as we will need again, at a cost which will destroy us. We must find other ways.”

She must have rehearsed for this too. 

Then, as if to illustrate her point, a torch-sized flame sparked into being in the air above her palm.

Her hand was shaking.

Jaina felt a pang of kinship with the girl— kinship and sudden, disorienting pride. 

She hadn’t been _nearly_ so composed the first time she met with Antonidas. 

She took a moment to inspect the girl… and felt her heart sink. 

There was a reddish undertone to the green of her skin. Not simply russet, but true red. 

She didn’t just know the Fel— she’d been _exposed_ to it, not just via the Blood Curse but directly, and for an extended period of time. 

Those raids on other Burning Blade hideouts— was she among those the Kor’kron had freed?

How long had she been at the mercy of those… those… 

It took Jaina some effort not to chill the air around her, or clench her jaw, or squeeze her staff until her knuckles went white. 

Next she encountered a warlock, she was going to find out if she could freeze someone’s organs inside them. Starting with the least important ones, and working her way up. 

_Breathe, Jaina._

“Thrak guraas-og?” She asked the girl. 

_How (are) known-you?_

“Atsurana, My Lady.” She was clearly trying very hard to hold eye contact.

“Atsurana.” Jaina gave her a smile she hoped was reassuring. “If a safer power is what you seek, why not turn to shamanism?” 

The girl swallowed, and let the flame shrink and vanish. Her hand fell back to her side, where Jaina saw it twitch with nerves. 

“We have many shamans, Admiral. Their worth cannot be measured. But you… can do things they cannot.” 

True. Portals, teleportation, telekinesis… even the banishment of demons too powerful or troublesome to kill. 

So… why did she look like she was holding something back? 

Whatever the reason, the girl was obviously anxious. Putting her on the spot wouldn’t help. 

Jaina resolved to revisit it later. She nodded approvingly, and swept her gaze over the others. 

In the corner of her eye, Atsurana’s shoulders relaxed just the slightest bit. 

“First Admiral.” 

One of the trolls this time, his Zandali accent rendering the orcish soft and musical. His was the hook tattoo. 

“Speak, fisherman,” she replied. 

“The young fire-keeper is right. The Horde is as the strands of a net. One cord alone is all but useless. Many interwoven are useful. The more strands, the better.” 

With that he raised his spear, swung it so that the blade pointed at the ground, and took a deep breath. 

For a moment, nothing happened. 

Then a bolt of violet power snapped between steel and dirt. 

Clever… it would leave fish paralyzed within a certain radius, if it didn’t kill them outright. 

“How are you known?” She asked. 

“Desta, Chieftain.” 

“Well said, Desta.” 

The tauren, a ranger named Temesh, spoke next, and then another of the trolls, several goblins, an orc, and so on. 

Few of them had such fine control of their magic as Desta or Atsurana, but all of them agreed with their reasoning, and set forth more reasons besides— ancient traditions forgotten in the long, chaotic march of trollish history, a need for diverse weapons against Legion and Alliance alike, curiosity toward both their own uncultivated gift and toward human culture… 

It varied, but not greatly. Their chieftains had chosen well— Jaina approved of every single one. 

By the time they’d finished, she could feel her face beginning to burn in the Durotar sun. 

She should ask Thrall about practical solutions to that. Surely the orcs must have devised some herbal concoction to stave off sunburn… 

A flicker of movement drew her eye up past the students, to the narrow passage leading to the Valley of Honor. White fur practically glowed in the light, draped over broad shoulders and edging sturdy harnesses. 

The Frostwolves were going home. 

_If_ Jaina could get the spell right. 

Aegwynn had been a great help in preparing her, but from Durotar to Alterac was a long journey no matter the means of transportation. 

Too long for a portal, in fact. It would take a _team_ of archmages to accomplish that. 

So a hearthstone it was. 

A hearthstone she had to make. 

The hearth in question being four thousand miles away. Roughly. 

She was… _fairly_ certain it would work. 

Jaina gripped her staff a bit tighter, and looked back to the students. _Her_ students. 

Tides. 

“Your first lesson,” she said, “Begins now.” 

Thirty-one pairs of eyes looked over her shoulder and widened. Thirty-one fists thumped thirty-one chests. 

Jaina turned, and did the same. 

“Warchief.” 

“First Admiral.” Thrall stood in the high doorway of the Hold, Drek’thar at his side. 

She was the _only_ Admiral of a fleet not yet built, and yet he always used the full title. 

The implicit expectation should have gone straight to her nerves. 

Why didn’t it? 

“Farseer.” Jaina repeated her salute to Drek’thar, with a shallow bow. 

The blind orc descended the steps without Thrall’s aid, and without missing a single one. Jaina’s first thought was of spirits whispering in his ears. Her second was that he probably had the area memorized. 

“These are they,” he said. His voice was wind and gravel. 

Jaina blinked. What—? 

Oh. 

“They are.” She half-turned toward the students, keeping him in front of her as well. “A promising lot.” 

He made that half-grunt, half-huff sound that orcs managed to convey so much with. This one seemed… contemplative, maybe? 

“A day for the songs,” he mused. Then he laid a gnarled hand over one of the several belts that spanned his waist, and felt along it until he found a bulging leather pouch. A deft movement loosened its drawstring, and another freed from it a smooth stone that fit perfectly in his large palm. 

This he held out before him, for all to see, and intoned: 

“The bone of Alterac.” 

And quieter, to Jaina: 

“You are not confident this will work.”

Damn.

“I…” She wet her lips, crushed the urge to duck her head— “I am not confident about a great many things, regardless of their actual likelihood of success.” 

Drek’thar grunted approvingly. “Honest, this one. Good.” 

Thrall smirked fondly— though whether for her or for the old shaman, Jaina could not discern. 

“However,” she quickly amended, “Hearthstones are very different from portals. There is no pathway to become lost on if the spell fails. No harm will come to any of your tribesmen, I swear it.” 

Another grunt-huff. Was there a word for that? There had to be a word for that.

“Then let us begin,” he said.

Jaina nodded. Took a steadying breath. Turned back to her students. 

“What I am about to attempt is very uncommon. I have read of it, but never tried it myself. Right now yours is not to learn the spell itself, but merely to observe, with all of your senses.” Understood?”

Fists to chests. 

Alright. 

“First,” she said to Drek’thar, “The binding.” 

He drew a hunting knife from his belt, its handle bone, its blade… well, if it were forged on Azeroth Jaina would have called it Darnassus steel, but—

He sliced open his palm, and pressed it to the stone. 

Right. 

With another deep breath, Jaina focused mana into her free hand, and laid it atop Drek’thar’s. 

  
  


*******

  
  


Here is a story, told around cooking fires and shouted between market stalls:

The Lady (not a queen, for some reason no one can explain beyond ‘human strangeness’) stands before the Hold, the Warchief on her right, the Elder Shaman on her left, and draws moonlight from within herself until her hand glows bright as the midday sun above. 

The Shaman does not flinch away from the soulcraft that once slew so many of his fellows. Not as it hums in the air around them, tangible even to the young apprentices. Not as she puts that moonlit hand atop his own, not even as she imbues the stone of Alterac with his very essence. 

Can you believe it? Drek’thar, putting such trust in a human? 

But was he not welcomed back by the elements, despite succumbing to the Fel? Did he not teach the Warchief of the old ways, and in so doing revive them? Is he not the most seasoned among us, the most wise? 

Perhaps we truly are stronger, with Theramore at our side. 

What strange times these are. 

But lo! The light fades from her hand, and passes into her staff, into the crystal as she raises it aloft. She speaks words older than the ancestors of her people, and into those words she pours her power, such that the very air rings with it. Lightning dances down her staff, across the ground, and where it strikes the dust churns like stormclouds, swirling around her and the Elder Shaman. The stone glows brighter and brighter—

And then she says _Alterac._

No one sees what happens next, for they shield their eyes as the dust blows out in all directions. When it clears, the Lady has stepped away, leaning on her staff like she needs it to stand. 

Both she and the Elder Shaman are unharmed… but we’ve all seen the perfect circle burned into the ground before the Hold. 

No more words are uttered. Drek’thar looks to Frostfire, and she nods. He looks to the Frostwolves where they stand at safe distance. 

They gather around him, laying their hands upon the stone, upon his shoulders, upon the shoulders of those touching his shoulders and so on, until all are connected in a great ring. 

Once more there is a glow, out from within the gathering, and those nearby smell fresh snow, feel cold wind—

And then they are gone. 

  
  


*******

  
  
  


Jaina let out a breath of relief, all but sagging against her staff. 

A smile came unbidden to her, fed by the spark of pride in her chest. 

Like passing an exam, back in Dalaran. 

“Alright!” She turned to the students. “What did you notice?” 

  
  
  
  


*****

  
  
  
  


Had she been less tired, Jaina might have been able to suppress the groan that escaped as the sea breeze washed over her.

She could practically _feel_ Pained smirking behind her.

It was, mercifully, a cloudy day in Theramore. It looked like it might even _rain._

_Thank the Tides._

One of these trips, she was going to make time to sail back from Durotar. 

Hopefully. 

Come to think of it, she’d like to take Thrall sailing. That his only experience with it should be the ordeal of crossing the sea in those leaking, thrown-together barges… it just wasn’t right. Perhaps when the first galleon was done, she’d insist he accompany her for the maiden voyage, show him how wonderful the sea could be if you knew how to work with it… 

_Later, Jaina. Focus._

To avoid disrupting daily commerce, she’d portaled her retinue onto the far side of the bridge, rather than the city square. Through that portal now came the students, followed by several carts laden with supplies— medicines, foods, spices, furs… 

And coming now over the bridge were the makings of the Horde Admiralty. Sailors former and current, shipwrights young and old, the younger bearing their tools in a litany of crates… 

All according to plan, for once. 

“Breathe,” Pained murmured. 

She did her best. 

  
  
  


*****

  
  


_Warchief,_

_I hope this letter finds you well._

_I am writing to assure you that_

_The volunteer apprentices The students are settling in admirably. I have housed them in my own tower, so that the more ~~timid~~ _ _more cautious among them can go about their business without feeling so surrounded by humans, and the more ~~trusting~~ _ _more adventurous can have access to the heart of the city._

~~_Tides, it’s strange to be able to write such a thing_ ~~

~~_Can you imagine if my father could_ ~~

~~_Did you choose the students yourself, or_ ~~

~~_I must confess to a curiosity concerning your part in the selection process_ ~~

_I am deeply honored by the trust Orgrimmar has shown in allowing me to mentor one so young as Atsurana._

_I suppose I wasn’t much older than her when ~~everything went to shit~~ _ _when the Third War began. ~~Perhaps that is why I feel so protective of her~~ _

_So many of our generation have been forced to grow up too fast. Hopefully together we will ensure that ~~our children~~ the next generation has a proper childhood. _

_I would like to apologize for some of by behavior, during my last visit. While I know that Orcish social etiquette differs greatly from that of my upbringing, I cannot help but feel that I conducted myself_ ~~_sloppily_ ~~ _somewhat poorly; It was deeply improper of me to greet you in such a state of_ ~~_undress_ ~~ ~~_inebriation_ ~~ _discomposure, especially without knowing how such behavior might ~~seem to you~~ _ _be construed in Orcish culture_

Ugh. 

Was blunt better? As far as she’d seen, Orcs were blunt about this sort of thing. It even seemed like they considered it… dishonorable, or something, to beat around the bush. But how else could she phrase it? 

_Sorry for acting like dithering farmgirl, it’s just that I was feeling awkward after I fucked myself to the thought of you? Hope I didn’t ruin our friendship that I very foolishly wish was more than friendship?_

Jaina out her face in her hands. 

“Take a break, dear.” Aegwynn did not look up from the stack of paperwork before her. She was, however, smirking. 

Jaina might have been more irritated by that if she weren’t preoccupied trying to figure out how she felt about being called _dear_ for the first time in…

In… 

How long? 

“You know,” said Aegwynn, “I once knew this _very_ fetching dragon. Met him on up in Northrend, you see. Demon trouble. Mind you, I’d only been made Guardian a few years prior, and was still feeling out my powers. Adjusting to them. I could be a little… overzealous, at times. It was like suddenly having six extra senses, you see, and another limb for each. And here comes this majestic creature with the prettiest blue scales, a century of experience more than I had, and a magic sense that’d make a magister green with envy. And his _elven_ form, let me tell you…”

What.

“Anyway,” Aegwynn waved dismissively, “demon hunt. Guardian responsibilities. _Dragonflight_ responsibilities, though they never really tell you what _those_ are…” 

Ah. 

This was _advice._

Maybe. 

“So…” Jaina wet her lips. “What happened? Did anything come of it?”

“Of course not, dear. Inter-species strangeness aside, we both had our lives, our duties. Not that it stopped us exchanging some _very_ interesting letters.” Aegwynn arched a brow, smirking once more. 

Jaina’s cheeks felt warm. 

“I—” She stood, picking up her staff. “I should attend to—” Damn. “Meetings.” 

Aegwynn’s raspy chuckle all but chased her out.

“Pained?” Jaina murmured, not breaking stride.

“My Lady?”

“Would you mind knocking some sense into me?” 

“Not at all, My Lady.” 

She could hear the smirk in Pained’s voice as well. 

  
  
  


*****

  
  
  


This late in the day, the training field was more sparsely populated. The veteran soldiers had long finished their drills in the cool of the morning, and now a few officers were scattered across the packed earth, instructing groups of recruits in basic combat. Towards the center of the field, two men were circling each other with practice swords. 

Pained tossed Jaina a stave. She caught it reflexively, twirling it into a fighting hold without so much as a thought— and paused to marvel at it. 

A smile tugged at Pained’s lips. 

Then her ears twitched, and she looked up, brows furrowing, eyes hunting—

Shouts. 

Jaina followed her gaze— and spotted it immediately. 

A huge owl descended over the training field, larger than a man, each beat of its wings stirring the dust—

No. 

Not an owl. Owls didn’t wear necklaces or bracelets or anklets. 

Jaina handed Pained her practice stave, and summoned her staff back into her hand. Stood tall. 

The druid landed lightly before her, and immediately bowed low. Feathers receded into purple hair and lavender skin, talons into large, callused hands and feet… 

“Identify yourself,” said Jaina. 

“I am but a messenger, My Lady.” The night elf rose back to full height, tossing his braided locks over one shoulder and touching one fist to his bare, tattooed chest. Then he worked two fingers beneath the leather of his bracer, and slid out a neat fold of parchment. “The High Priestess sends her regards.” 

Jaina’s heart _thumped_ against her ribs. Thrall had sent a runner into Ashenvale nearly a week ago, bearing a letter Jaina had written. A request for the arrangement of a diplomatic meeting. It had taken several drafts to not sound quite so desperate. 

Had Tyrande sent messengers to the Orgrimmar and Thunder Bluff as well, or…?

She’d find out soon enough. Right now she had an opportunity. 

“Welcome to Theramore.” Jaina held out a hand for the message, and the messenger obliged. “Will you be staying for a night? You’ve had quite the journey.” 

_Please say yes, please say yes…_

“You are most gracious, My Lady.” The words seemed sincere, if somewhat stiff, and he did not bow and scrape as a human messenger would have. Jaina wondered what his crash-course in human etiquette had been like. Or how he’d learned to speak Common so well. “I am honored by your hospitality.” 

Good. She’d have him shown around, have him shown what Orcs and Humans were building together. 

“We are honored to host you, sir.” Jaina shot a meaningful look to the gathered soldiers, bidding them return to their duties. “Follow me.” 

Only once the tower staff had led the man away to the guest quarters did Jaina pause, and unfold the message. 

_To Our Cherished Ally, the Lady Jaina Frostfire, Ruler of Theramore and Hero of Hyjal_

_My congratulations on your historic union. I shall pray to Elune for your peaceful integration into the Horde._

_Pray_ for—? 

Jaina wasn’t sure whether to be relieved or… warned. 

No, she definitely felt warned. 

_I share your concerns, and agree; we must speak._

Alright, warned _and_ relieved. 

_We shall meet in Astranaar, when Elune’s gaze is brightest. I request the presence of the Warchief, as well as the High Chieftain, and whichever advisors they and you deem necessary to the negotiations. We will all leave our weapons behind. I advise against any displays of sorcery._

_Sincerely,_

_Tyrande Whisperwind, High Priestess of Elune_

Jaina re-read it. Twice. Leaned back in her chair. Let out a long, slow breath. 

Then she slid the cloth off her scrying orb, and gathered her thoughts. 

Thrall. 

Cairne. 

Astranaar. 

Diplomacy with a ten-thousand-year-old avatar of a Goddess. 

All in a day’s work. 

  
  
  
  


*****

  
  
  
  


They were all busy, of course. By the time she managed to speak with Cairne, Vol’jin, and Thrall —somehow _without_ saying anything horribly improper— the sun had begun to set, painting the sky over the marsh fiery orange, pink, and purple. 

Jaina allowed herself a respite, then, to sit and drink some tea, watching the colors deepen and darken. 

It was all so… _odd._

The things she’d done, these past few years… 

She heard people talking about her, from time to time, or heard the bards sing of her. Her deeds were like something out of legend, she _knew_ they were… and yet none of it was _enough._

The Alliance was likely rebuilding their fleets even now, while the Horde had a handful of unfinished galleons. 

Every day brought a new snag in the process of integration, another scuffle over imagined slights, cultural misunderstandings, grudges older than she was… 

And Thrall. 

She could see it weighing on him, _all_ of it, even through the distance and distortion of the scrying orb. Could see the bags under his eyes and the tightness of his features, the constant strain… 

And he wouldn’t _talk_ about it with her. There was always something else to discuss, trade and diplomacy and security and then some pressing task calling him or her away before they could really talk about _themselves,_ and what _they_ needed, and what—

What they wanted.

What _she_ wanted. 

Because that was the fucking problem, as if she didn’t already have enough of them. 

She could have _managed_ just being attracted to him physically. 

But no. 

They just had to have so many things in common. He just had to be the kindest, strongest man she’d ever met. He just had to leave that damn _journal_ where she would find it, had to leave her aching with the echoes of what he’d suffered. 

Aching with her own desire to just… just portal to Orgrimmar and _hug_ him. To feel his hands on her again, to feel the heat and power radiating off of him, to lay him down and ease his burdens however she could. 

Fucking hel. 

_This_ was why she didn’t take breaks. 

Jaina pulled herself away from the window with a jerk, and turned to find Pained in her way, giving her a calculating look. 

Jaina arched a brow. “...may I pass?”

The elf crossed her arms. Narrowed her eyes. 

“No.”

Jaina sighed. “Pained… I appreciate what you’re trying to do, but—” 

“What am I trying to do?”

“I don’t know, get me to drink water or take a nap or something?”

“You’ve been drinking tea for half an hour, and you’re too anxious to sleep.” 

“So… what—”

“Come with me.” 

“Where?” 

“The tavern.” 

“I sincerely doubt getting drunk will help.” 

“So don’t drink.”

“Pained, what…?” 

“The fruits of your labor, Jaina.” Pained’s expression softened. “Come and see.” 

“...very well.” 

  
  


She hadn’t actually _been_ to the tavern before, but stepping into it now, Jaina found herself appreciating how quintessentially _Theramore_ it was. Two capsized longboats served as the roof, nailed together side-by-side, reinforced by bundles of oars, all mounted atop walls made of stones dragged up from the shore. Barrels covered the back wall, stacked sideways atop each other, ale flowing from their spigots into the tankards, gourds, and horns of the people that filled the hall. 

A considerable number of people… making considerably less noise than Jaina would have expected. 

It didn’t take her long to find the cause. 

Farseer Yaghna sat on one of the long tables, bead-laden arms raised to pantomime… the claws of a beast, of some kind?

Most of the hall was watching her, in fact, drink-flushed faces rapt. Families sat in a loose ring around her, children gasping at the story, while further out Jaina could see goblins standing chairs and benches to get a better view… 

And those goblins weren’t grouped together, away from the humans, but scattered about. And there— a cluster of human women with their hair braided similarly to that of the two trolls in their midst. To Yaghna’s right, Ariok seemed to be involved in some manner of drinking contest with Lieutenant Hierra, and to her left… 

Ngashk grinned rakishly as Yaghna gestured to her. Incredulous laughs rippled through the crowd. Yaghna _caught_ Ngashk grinning and slapped her on the arm. 

Curious… were all orcs so _familial_ about professional relationships, or—?

A flicker of light drew her eye away from the old shaman, not to any lantern or brazier, where fire _should_ be, but… 

Ah. 

Atsurana sat on a low stool, hardly a proper seat by human standards, with her back to the wall and a candle-sized flame in her hand— until she spotted Jaina looking at her. 

The tiny flame sputtered out, and her hand darted back into the shawl draped over her leather armor. Then her eyes widened, and she rose, thumping her chest in salute. 

Jaina shook her head, smiling, and approached. 

“Sit,” she said. “This isn’t a lesson. Not for you, anyway.” 

Hesitantly, Atsurana obeyed. Jaina wasn’t entirely sure she’d seen anyone _sit_ at attention before. 

“May I?” Jaina waved her tankard at the space beside the girl. 

“Dabu.” 

She resisted the urge to insist on informality, and summoned a chair with a flick of her fingers. Sat. Watched Yaghna weave her tale… which seemed to be of a hunt, in which Ngashk had participated, in which Ngashk had done something uproariously cocky. It struck Jaina as the sort of thing that was probably funnier in hindsight. 

Atsurana was still very tense. Jaina wasn’t sure she was paying any attention to the shaman, even though she was looking at her. 

And an ‘at ease’ probably wouldn’t cut it. Atsurana would have remained with the young, old, and infirm during the battle for Hyjal. She’d never fought at Jaina’s side— only heard the exaggerated tales, or glimpsed her from afar in finery, rather than torn, bloody robes. 

And if she was going to really mentor this girl, something had to be done about that. 

Ngashk leapt up next to Yaghna, appearing to take issue with some detail of her retelling, only for Zogrim, her second, to slap her on the head and haul her back down. The crowd roared with laughter. 

“Kwaáv, khogash’gal.” _Speak, apprentice._ “You can speak freely here. Akh tarakath.” _(This is) not (a)_ lesson. 

Finally, Atsurana made eye contact… and Jaina hoped those dark bags were from long hours of study, and not… 

“My Lady.” Atsurana’s voice sounded rough. Out-of-use. Come to think of it, she hadn’t spoken much in this morning’s— “Everything is a lesson.” 

...hm. 

Alright. She could work with that.

Jaina set her stein down between her feet, took a moment to puzzle at the fact that said stein had appeared in her hand at some point, and then conjured a ball of ice into her newly-freed hand. 

“I was never much good with fire magic, myself. It always required more control than I had patience for.” 

Atsurana studied the ice like a sacred text.

Jaina dispelled it, back into the air. “You said you seek a power that will not corrupt as the fel does.”

The girl met her eye again. Nodded, quick and uncertain. 

“You told me that I do things shamans cannot… but I cannot help but think there is more you did not say.”

Atsurana looked down at the mug in her hand. The water that filled it. Which… most humans hadn’t been around orcs enough to be able to look at the girl and see a child, rather than a young woman. She _could_ have a mug full of ale, or something harder. But she didn’t. 

“Water is wild. Untamable.” Once more, Atsurana made and held eye contact with Jaina, like a seasoned soldier who’d been commanded to do so. 

“Fire is hungry,” she said. “Earth is stubborn. Winds are fickle. Shaman must speak… must _negotiate,_ with them.” 

This wasn’t rehearsed. At least, not as much as her speech back in Orgimmar; her common was improving fast. 

“Shaman must…” the girl wet her lips, eyes darting back and forth as she searched for the word. “Must _appease_ . Even obey, sometime. Not you. You trick them to do what you need.” Her voice had fallen to a murmur. She sounded as tired as she looked. More tired than anyone her age should ever have to _be._ “You trick the world into being fair.” 

Oh. 

The urge to wrap an arm around the girl was nigh-overpowering. 

Jaina resisted. Who knew what Atsurana’s exact feelings on humans were? Why, exactly, she’d stayed sober? 

Besides, she was expecting a teacher. Not a… 

A what? 

“My magic…” Jaina rolled the message around in her mind. “Magic, no matter the kind, can only do so much. People will be people, regardless of how much fire or ice you can conjure.”

A faint crease formed between Atsurana’s brows. 

“There’s a human saying: ‘when all you have is a hammer, everything looks like a nail.’ Do you… does that make sense?” 

The girl frowned. Thought. Nodded. 

“When you have magic,” Jaina said, “it can be tempting to use it for everything. To let it become you. The more powerful you become, the more magic will seem like the answer to all your problems. But it never will be.” 

“Then… what do I do?

“Stay disciplined. Never forget why you seek this power. Stay connected to the people you would serve.”

Atsurana watched her for a moment longer, though whether she was concentrating on understanding the words, or something else, Jaina couldn’t say. 

But at last she nodded again, and cast her gaze back out over the motion of the hall. 

Yaghna had finished her tale, and a human man now stood atop a table further back, a grinning goblin woman at his side. They kept interrupting each other, but seemed to be having a good time. 

Jaina considered the girl beside her. 

Thrall was uncommonly large, for Orcs his age. Most Orcs born on Azeroth were born in the camps, brought up on grain they couldn't fully digest, and their stature reflected it. They were shorter than their forebears, less robust, and Atsurana was no exception. She’d clearly gained some height recently, and her body hadn’t yet caught up. Jaina hadn’t even known gangly Orcs _existed._

But beyond that… the crimson-tinged green of dual fel exposure, the hair shorn close to her scalp, and the unmistakable scorching of the longest curls… 

And now, barely an arm’s length away, Jaina could see a faint green glow in her eyes as well. 

She was both the youngest of the apprentices and the most dour. Almost withdrawn. Even now, Jaina could see several of the other students gathered closer to Farseer Yaghna, watching the odd pair bicker their way through some scandalous tale. But Atsurana chose the corner. Kept her back to the wall. Kept the exits in sight. Stayed sober.

Anger and sorrow warred in Jaina’s chest. 

Laughter rippled once more through the hall, mingling with whistles and trills— which led to humans begging their trollish drinking buddies to show them how it was done… 

This.

This was what it was all for. 

_This_ would make them strong enough to stand against the Alliance. To protect children like Atsurana from what lurked in the shadows. 

Jaina looked over her shoulder, and found Pained leaning beside the door, eyes bright. 

A smile passed between them, warm as any Jaina had shared with… 

Oh. 

With Derek. 

The old ache returned to her chest, but it was duller, fainter. 

Jaina turned back to the crowd, to watch the latest storyteller. 

She wondered if anything like this had cropped up back in Orgrimmar. If someone had coaxed Thrall out of his keep to… 

Tidesdammit. 

Jaina picked up her stein, and was about to take a sip when Atsurana stood and saluted once more— not for her, but for… 

Ah. Ngashk. 

Though perhaps for Zogrim as well, seeing as the two were approaching with their burly arms slung over each others’ shoulders.

“Runaz-nukh!” Ngashk shoved her drinking horn at Zogrim, and used thumped her chest. He then shoved it back into her hand, and did the same. 

Jaina couldn’t help but smile back. “Kronazuk. Warrior. I hope the evening finds you well?” 

Ngashk smiled wider, then jostled Zogrim a bit closer to her, and said something in slurred orcish— save for the word ‘etiquette’, pronounced very carefully. Zogrim nodded, a look of concentration furrowing his features. Then he stood tall, met Jaina’s eye, and said: 

“And may it find you as well.” 

Ngashk grimaced, apologetic. 

Someone snorted. 

“Your Ladyship!” Mayana Miller swaggered over, flushed and grinning and holding two very full tankards of ale. “Kind of’ya t’join us!” 

“It was—” _Pained’s idea,_ she stopped herself from saying. “I wish I’d done it sooner!”

“I’ll drink t’that!” Mayana held out one of the tankards, bowing forward slightly at the hip. “If My Lady drinks with me.” 

“Your Lady already _has_ a drink, Miss Miller.” 

Ngashk scoffed good-humoredly. “Human breadwater. Not real drink.” 

Jaina tried to put on her best queenly visage, but couldn’t chase the smile from her face. “That sounds suspiciously like a challenge, soldier." 

Ngashk met her gaze with a determination that belied the smirk teasing her well-formed lips. “Battle challenge, you crush me. This only way I win... how you say? Right to boast?" 

"Bragging rights. And we wouldn’t want to deprive you of those, would we?” Jaina held her gaze for a moment, brow arched. Then she chugged her ale and stood, setting the empty stein on her seat. “Well?” 

She nodded to the drinking horn in the warrior’s robust hands. 

Zogrim barked out a laugh. 

Ngashk passed the horn. 

  
  
  


*****

  
  
  


“So Elise says t’him—” Mayana, who apparently become wildly expressive when drunk, leaned across the table to tap her finger on Ngashk’s breastplate— “She _says_ t’him, get this— _ande’thoras…”_ Her eyes widened. “Shit.” 

Then she dropped her head to the table with a _thump,_ and with a voice full of mortified anguish, groaned: “I d’nno how t’say it in Common.” 

Silence. 

Then Zog barked a laugh, and Ngashk followed, and soon even Jaina was all but doubled over, shaking, gasping for air.

“There was—” She clutched at her sides— “there was so much _buildup_ —” 

“Why not— not _translate_ before—” The table shook under Ngashk’s fist. “Before—” She lost it again.

“Excuse me for bein’ distracted by a good time!” Mayana was red as a tomato. “Besides, the whole damn language sounds so bloody lovely, can y’blame me for forgettin’ to flip it t’plain old _Common!”_

Jaina’s belly hurt. 

_“Ande’thoras-ethil,”_ said Ngashk. 

Everyone paused. Stared. 

The hulking warrior leaned her elbow on the table, and her face on her hand, cheeks flushed with drink and mirth. “May your trouble… be less? I think.” 

Jaina was suddenly short of breath for a very different reason. 

“May your troubles be diminished,” said Pained. 

“Oh,” Jaina choked out. “Oh, that is rather clever. Yes.” 

Zogrim picked his horn back up, chuckling. Ngashk didn’t look away from Mayana. Mayana didn’t look away from Ngashk. She had, in fact, gotten even redder. But then the embarrassment faded from her features as if it were never there, replaced by a roguish, if tentative, smirk. 

“Dunno,” she said, shrugging. “Sounds better coming from her. You should stick t’Orcish, luv.” 

“Urukath,” Jaina blurted for some reason. _Orcsong._

“Chákoth gun’kath khwaghash-íri,” Ngashk rumbled, a languid smirk curving her well-shaped lips, eyes never once leaving Mayana’s— “Wor’nákaz.” 

_I’ll sing any song you like, little wolf._

Oh. 

Jaina felt quite red herself, just then. 

Mayana wet her lips. “And, ah… what’s all that mean, then?” 

“You are clever. Take guess.” 

Al _right,_ then. 

Jaina put down her stein. “I, uh, have to get an early start tomorrow, so…” 

“Yes,” said Pained. “Best we adjourn for the evening.” 

“You have honored us,” said Zogrim, raising his drinking horn. 

Jaina wouldn’t be surprised if orcish warriors said that after sex. 

She’d have to ask Mayana, later. Much later. 

Jaina pushed her chair back and stood. “The honor was mine. Aka’magosh, warriors of the Horde. Miss Miller.” 

“Milady.” She was, of course, still looking at Ngashk. 

Jaina took her leave, hoping she wasn’t as flushed as she felt. 

She probably was, given how soothing the night air felt on her cheeks. 

Someone cleared their throat. 

Jaina turned to find Pained standing very pointedly between her and General Lorena, who was standing beside the door to the tavern, shifting nervously from foot to foot. 

Which… Jaina wasn’t sure she’d ever _seen_ Lorena nervous. She was neither armed nor armored, and had no men with her, so…? 

“General.” Jaina turned to face her. “Is something wrong?” 

“No, Ma’am, I just…” Jaina had never heard her slur before, either. “No. Yes? I… ‘spose I’m not rightly sure.” 

“...the tower and the keep are in the same direction,” she offered. “Care to walk with me, Lorena?” 

That only seemed to deepen the General’s distress— but she nodded, and fell into step beside her. 

As they walked, the noise of the tavern and inn began to fade, leaving only the sound of their footfalls, the tap of Jaina’s staff on the ground, lanterns creaking as they swayed in the breeze… 

“I, ah.” Lorena opened and closed her hands. “I may have... come across some… sensitive information. Yes.” 

Jaina kept her eyes forward, to not burden the soldier with her scrutiny. “Best we not discuss it out in the open, then.” 

“Yessir. Ma’am. Fuck.” 

For what was likely the very first time, Jaina found herself worried for the woman. 

She considered simply teleporting them up to her office, but decided against. The walk might be good for both of them. 

By the time they climbed the final steps, she was regretting it. 

Her morning combat training hadn’t been especially tough, but combined with repeated demonstrations for the students, several trips up and down earlier in the day, and a casual drinking contest with a three-hundred-pound Orc… 

“Here we are,” she all but gasped, opening the door for Lorena. “Water, General?” 

“Oh, no, I…” 

Jaina arched a brow. 

“That’d be nice, Ma’am.” 

What was going _on?_

Jaina didn’t ask. Just levitated a pitcher and cups over, filled them, and almost took her seat at the desk before deciding against formality, and instead sitting on the desk itself. 

Lorena sipped her water, staring at some point near Jaina’s dangling feet. Her eyes were full of uncertainty. 

_Sensitive information._ That could mean… anything, really. Perhaps it was something that put her in an uncomfortable position? Lorena hadn’t been general for very long, so it made sense she might not feel entirely confident with certain aspects of her post just yet… but still. This was… 

“Milady,” said Lorena, “you’re a worldly woman. Seen more of it than most. Studied lots. And open-minded, too, that goes without saying— and here I am saying it…” she scratched the back of her neck. 

“Have you…” Jaina frowned. “Have you had some sort of cultural misunderstanding? I don’t understand trolls or tauren as well as I understand orcs and elves, but…” 

“S’not that, Milady.”

And Jaina was concerned, but she’d also had a very long day, and more than a bit to drink, and now she had to go to bed knowing Mayana and Ngashk were getting the sort of relief she hadn’t had in ages, and now she was _picturing it_ — 

“General,” she said, “are you going to tell me what it _is?”_

Lorena looked up at her then with fear in her eyes. _Fear,_ from the woman who didn’t so much as flinch during the whole process of joining the Horde. 

For a moment she seemed to search Jaina’s gaze for something. 

Then she gulped down the rest of her water, and sighed. 

“I apologize, Milady, I… seem t’have misrepresented the nature of the problem. It’s personal, y’see— and normally I wouldn’t _think_ of bothering you with something personal, it’s just that— well, like I said, you’re—” 

“Open-minded?”

“Yes, Ma’am.” 

“And I’m flattered by your saying so. And by your coming to me. I can’t make any promises without knowing the nature of the problem, of course, but…” 

“The other night,” Lorena blurted. “After you came back from Orgrimmar unharmed, which— we all know the Warchief and his lot would never do anything to you, but we still worry, y’know? So you were home safe, and me an some of the boys headed down t’the tavern to unwind some of that worry, right? So we’re a few pints in, plus some nasty goblin stuff, and…” There she paused. Took a breath. Seemed to study Jaina’s expression again. “It’s not many women in the city guard, you know. I mean, there’s a good number, there’s just a lot more men.” 

“Right.”

“And the men are _good_ men, who have nothing against women in general… it’s just taking orders from one rubs some of’em the wrong way.” 

Jaina frowned. “If I need to have a _talk_ with someone, General…” 

“No! No, Ma’am, it’s nothing I can’t handle. _Enjoy_ handling, some of the time, you know?” Lorena smiled lopsidedly, but the uncertainty hadn’t left her eyes. “Showing them what-for. Anyway, we were at the tavern, me and a dozen or so of the boys, and a few of them were… well, telling jokes. You know. Just being pricks, a little bit. About me being… a woman.” 

...well that was an odd place to hesitate. 

“So they’re telling their stupid jokes, and most of the others are shutting them down well enough, but I just get annoyed, right? I’m trying to unwind, and they’re mucking it up by being unfunny. So I say to them, ‘Call me bloody _Logan_ if it helps you focus on your damn jobs!’ ‘Course they thought that was hilarious, so for the rest of the night I was ‘Bloody Logan.’ Which should have been annoying, right? But I…” Lorena took a deep breath. “I _liked_ it. A lot. The ‘Logan’ part, I mean, not the ‘bloody’ part. And I mean, when I was a kid, I guess I always… kind of thought of myself as a boy, same as my brothers. Wasn’t until I started really growing that people started treating me differently. And now… I don’t know. I can’t stop thinking about it.” 

Ah. 

“You studied in Dalaran, My Lady. With the elves. And you’re out there speaking Orcish and getting along with the big scary blighters better than any of us. Have you ever… I don’t know, read about something like this, or…?” 

“No, actually.” 

Lorena froze, eyes wide. “Oh.”

“General.” Jaina reached out, and laid a hand on her… _his?_ Shoulder. “I didn’t need to read about it. I had a friend, another apprentice, who… it sounds like you might have some things in common with.”

“You did?” At long last a bit of that uncertainty fell away, bright hope shining through. 

Jaina’s heart squeezed in her chest. 

“I did. She was a high elf, who was… _mistakenly identified,_ I suppose, as a boy. At birth, I mean.” 

“She…?” The general looked a bit overwhelmed. _“She.”_

“A woman through and through.” 

“That’s… wow.” 

Jaina smiled. “I thought so too, yes. Would you…” she retracted her hand from the General’s shoulder, and ducked her head to meet their eyes. “Would you prefer _I_ call you Logan?”

“I… maybe? I don’t know, maybe I was just in a strange mood that night? Pressures of the job and all that? I’d had a bit to drink. _I’ve had_ a bit to drink.”

“That would be a rare mood indeed.” Jaina chewed her lip. “Let’s put it this way: if I were to say, for example… ‘General Logan is an exemplary soldier, _he_ serves Theramore well’...” 

From the looks of it, she may as well have thumped the General in the chest. 

“Oh.” A blink. Unshed tears. “This… this is a _thing,_ then. Alright.”

“Alright?”

“...alright.”

Jaina set down her cup. “We can just try it out. Just between us. No one else has to know.”

“That’s…” He looked mildly panicked. “That would be nice?”

Jaina slid off the desk, and was halfway to embracing him before she caught herself, and opened her mouth to ask if it was wanted— 

But then he was already hugging her. Quite firmly. 

“Thank you. _Thank you,_ Milady.” 

“I think we’re allowed to be on a first-name basis, Logan.” 

A breath shuddered out of him, to hear that.

“...fucking ‘ell.”

She was doing quite a lot of smiling, today. 

_“Thank you,_ Jaina.” 

“Thank _you_ for trusting me with this, Logan. I..." Ha. "I'm honored." 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fanblog: jaina-pridemore.tumblr.com  
> Writeblr: amari-haynes-writes


	14. Pistols at Dawn

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thrall gives an order.  
> Jaina has some issues with it.  
> A duel is fought.

_Lady Jaina,_ Thrall wrote, and immediately crossed it out. 

~~_Lady Frostfire_ ~~

_First Admiral,_

_I hope this letter finds you well._

_~~It warms my heart~~ _ _~~I am pleased to hear of~~ _ _It warms my heart to hear of the progress of your apprentices, and of your progress in teaching them. I know you initially found the task daunting— a feeling, it should be said, which I know like the back of my hand_ . _It is my hope that you might, through this endeavor, find yourself more comfortable with confidence and admiration ~~that I~~ _ _that the Horde has for you_ . _You have earned every bit of it twice over._

 _I find myself reflecting, of late, on the night of ~~your~~ _ _Theramore’s induction into the Horde, and the ensuing celebration._ _Already, human bards, orcish drummers, and tauren flutists can be found playing together in the taverns of Orgrimmar, while trolls and elves fight not for territory, but for the title of ‘best dancers’_ — _and I believe it was that night which laid the foundations for such things._

 _I would give our people more opportunities to revel in our commonalities and differences_ — _a celebration of the new year (all three of them), perhaps, or the harvest. Please, consider it._

 _More pressing however, is news I received this morning from the Ambassador. Rather than relay it to you in writing, which may be intercepted, or via scrying orb, which would be vulnerable to enemy sorcery, I will contact you via the most secure method I know: dreamwalking. I know how unusual and potentially uncomfortable this can be for a non-shaman, and had we not the enemies we have I would rather we discuss it at length_ . _I wish I had the luxury of requesting this as your friend; I do not. I must command it as your Warchief. I do not do so lightly._

_I will visit you in your dreams tonight. Drink tea of silverleaf and peacebloom before you sleep. Your mind will determine the form I take._

_Sincerely,_

_Thrall, Warchief of the New Horde_

  
  
  


Jaina stared at the parchment on her desk, blushing from cheeks to chest. 

And probably lower. 

Memories of _the ensuing celebration_ filled her mind’s eye— Thrall’s smile and rumbling voice, the firelight dancing in his eyes, the hard flex of his thighs and shoulders and arms, the soft-looking hair of his broad chest dewy with sweat… 

His hand, warm and callused, encompassing hers. 

The fire it lit in her core. 

_Your mind will determine the form I take._

Fuck. 

Why now?? They’d been communicating via letter and scrying orb for months— what had changed? What news had he received that warranted this? 

_The Ambassador,_ with a capital A, and sensitive information… 

Lansire. He could only be talking about Lansire— Forsaken intelligence. 

Jaina’s heart quickened in her chest. Had their spies within the Alliance finally come through? Was there another attack coming? 

_Tidesdammit, Jaina._ Her… _feelings_ regarding Thra— regarding _the Warchief_ were the least of her worries. 

“Alright,” said Aegwynn, “let me see it.” 

Jaina looked up. The chamberlain sat leaning back in her plush chair, feet up on the other desk and a stack of parchments in her wrinkled hands, one grey brow arched in curiosity. 

“I—” Jaina’s voice came out entirely too breathy. She paused and deepened it. “I don’t believe that’s necessary.” 

Aegwynn narrowed her eyes. A faint smirk tugged at her lips. “It’s from the Warchief, isn’t it.”

Shit. “No.” 

“Really? That’s odd, I can’t think of anyone else whose handwriting makes you breathe funny.” 

“Wh— I am _not_ —” Jaina could _feel_ herself getting redder. “I don’t know what you mean.” 

The old mage looked back to her papers, chuckling. “Of course not.” 

Jaina took a steadying breath, and smoothed her hand over the parchment.

“I swear,” Aegwynn mumbled, shuffling papers, “you get more exercise from that boy’s letters than you do from those blasted stairs.” 

Jaina elected to ignore that. 

Subtle movement drew her eye to where Pained leaned against the wall beside the door. She too arched a brow. 

_Do you need my help?_

Jaina looked down at the letter again. Thrall’s handwriting _was_ rather pleasing to the eye. How he got it so neat and flowing despite the size of his hands was anyone’s guess. Did he use an abnormally large quill, or…? 

_Focus, Jaina._

She met Pained’s eyes again, and shook her head. 

This was her problem to deal with. Her unprofessional feelings to rein in. She wasn’t a flustered apprentice anymore, gawking at the elegant and powerful elite of Dalaran. She was a ruler, a warrior, an admiral— she would handle this like she had all that came before. 

“Aegwynn.” 

“Jaina.”

“What’s on my schedule for the day?”

Papers shuffled. “Audiences ‘til noon or so, then meetings with the carpenter’s guild, Tervosh, and the city council. You and Pained should have ample time to beat each other up before supper.” 

Jaina resisted the urge to roll her eyes. “Thank you, Aegwynn. Please have some silverleaf and peacebloom delivered to my rooms around sundown, will you?” 

“Planning to meditate?”

“Something like that.” 

“I’ll see it done.” 

“Thank you.”

A disinterested hum. 

It was rather refreshing, to have someone around who wasn’t even the slightest bit in awe of her. Grounding. 

Jaina pressed two fingers to the arcane lock of her desk drawer, and let her mana flow. It clicked open with a prickle of static. After adding Thrall’s latest letter to the stack, she slid it closed once more, and stood. 

_All in a day’s work. Be it demons, mutineers, or… this._

Deep breaths. Focus. 

She could handle this. She _would_ handle this. 

  
  
  
  
  


*****

  
  
  
  


She was not handling this well. 

She loved her people, she _did,_ but so many of their requests and grievances echoed each other, and for practicality's sake, she had to receive them in the throne room. 

She didn’t _like_ using the throne room, not personally— but neither was she comfortable making her subjects scale the spiral stairs of her tower, and there were too many of them to use the teleportation circle she’d put in the tower’s vestibule; it would burn out in a day. 

So the throne room it was. Drab stone and threadbare carpets, the new banner of Theramore hanging beside that of the Horde on its grey walls, the sunrise sapling framed by gold-stitched borders. 

There were no windows. Glass hadn’t really been an option, in the desperate early days of Theramore’s founding, and security had been the first and last word in construction. Braziers lined the walls instead… much like Thrall’s throne room. 

Minus the soft furs, warm colors, and the calming aura of his presence. 

Tidesdammit. 

Even her crown reminded her of him— the pride and relief practically radiating from him on that day, from his bright smile and shining eyes… 

Which just led her traitorous mind right back to their dance. 

And what she’d done _after_ their dance. 

Jaina discreetly cast another wave of frost over herself. 

Once more the double doors creaked open, and through them came another of her subjects, his cap clutched to his chest, glancing in nervous awe between the ice that glittered on the epaulets and chains of her uniform and the demonbone crown upon her brow. 

“Milady.” He knelt upon the lukewarm stone, head bowed. “I know your time is precious— _thank you_ for seeing me.” 

“Rise, citizen.” 

He stood, though his eyes remained on the carpet and his hands remained clutching his cap. 

Jaina leaned forward on her throne, sliding her arms off the stone and onto her thighs, fingers interlaced. Hopefully it’d make her look less intimidating. She realized, somewhat distantly, that it was a decidedly masculine pose, and found herself oddly pleased by that. 

“What is your name?” She asked. 

“Brayton, Milady. Gregor Brayton. I’m a wainwright.” 

“What brings you here today, Mr. Brayton?” 

He took a steadying breath, looked her in the eye, and proceeded to describe yet _another_ case of black mold plaguing the western tenements, making people sick. Just one of many problems resulting from the desperate haste of Theramore’s initial construction. It was looking like they might have to tear down and rebuild entire residential blocks, which would mean relocating hundreds of people for weeks at a time, which would require dozens and dozens of tents, which would require vast quantities of sailcloth, rope, wood, and cotton, to say nothing of the actual construction materials… 

Jaina reassured Brayton and dismissed him, mentally running through the logistics, occasionally turning to have the attending scribe record key figures, orders to be relayed, experts to be summoned… 

And through all of it, she thought of Thrall. If he had audiences like this, or if the orcish clan system handled such things differently, how caring and confidence inspiring he was with his subjects, how imposing and unshakeable he looked sitting on that bone-flower throne with his ruggedly handsome features firelit… 

This was getting _entirely_ out of hand. 

Tides, what if she _dreamed about him?_ What if she dreamed about him and _he_ **_saw it?_ **

Two more citizens were in the room, airing a messy, confusing property dispute. It was _important that Jaina listen._

And all she could think about was that Thrall was going to know how she’d been thinking of him. 

He was going to know, and it was going to make him _incredibly uncomfortable,_ and it was going to strain both their personal _and_ professional relationships—

Pained stepped out of the shadows to stand beside the throne, bent at the hip, and murmured into Jaina’s ear: 

“What do you need?”

The petitioners paused mid-tirade, glancing between ruler and bodyguard uncertainly. It must look like Pained was relaying some vital information, Jaina realized, and loved her a little bit more for it. 

“Distraction,” she said. 

Pained considered that for a beat. Then: “It _was_ from the Warchief.” 

Jaina suppressed the urge to groan, and settled for giving Pained a pleading look. 

Her bodyguard smirked, and rose back to full height. 

“Lady Frostfire must attend to a pressing situation,” she told the room. “Your grievances will be heard tomorrow.” 

The petitioners looked stuck between disappointment, frustration, and fear of whatever Jaina and her Scary Elven Bodyguard might consider a ‘pressing situation.’ 

Which was understandable. Jaina would take ‘incredibly inconvenient attraction’ over ‘demonic conspiracy’ or ‘genocidal splinter groups’ any day. 

...no, actually. She _much_ preferred slaying demons to being tortured by the memory of Thrall’s firm but gentle touch. 

Would she ever be able to touch him again without thinking about—?

“My Lady.”

“Yes. Right.” Jaina stood abruptly, and marched out of the room. 

  
  
  


*****

  
  
  


One brief cold shower later, Jaina descended the stairs of her tower, toward the sound of a strangely accented voice reading from a tome she knew well. 

_“What we call magic is the action and result of the channeling and/or manipulation of one or more of the six Cosmic Forces.”_

Another voice haltingly translated into Urukath, rearranging the sentence structure, struggling with the larger words… 

_"These forces exist in opposition to and balance with one another,”_ the first voice continued. _“They are as follows:_

_Light and Shadow, which originate outside the borders of the physical universe,_

_Life and Death, which hold sway over all living things,_

_And Order and Disorder, which govern the systems of the universe, from the trajectory of an arrow to the movement of the celestial spheres.”_

Jaina stepped onto the stone of the tower’s middle level, and several pairs of eyes widened. The apprentices sat, stood, and leaned against railings and walls in what might have been a circle if they’d had more space. Upon seeing Jaina, a few rushed to stand and salute, drawing the attention of others. 

“First Admiral!”

“Lady Frostfire!”

“Runaz-nukh!” 

Jerrick, the well-groomed goblin machinist, clapped shut the leather-bound tome he’d been reading from. Jaina glimpsed familiar turquoise inlay between his fingers, and recalled running hers over it for the first time, years ago in the Great Library of Dalaran.

That ache was duller, now, but still there.

Ysuria, who stood inside the circle, crossed her arms. 

“At ease.” Jaina raised her free hand in a placating gesture. “I am here to observe, not command. Please, continue.” 

They sat back down as if it _were_ a command. 

“Who can tell me,” said Ysuria, “which forms of magic are derived from which Cosmic Forces? Who can guess?” 

Desta the Fisherman raised a well-worked turquoise hand. Ysuria gave him a nod. 

“Is the Fel… de-rived… from Death?”

 _Close,_ Jaina thought, taking a seat on one of the low steps, _but no._

But instead of answering, Ysuria turned to… 

“Atsurana.”

The girl did not move, save to look at the elf, but she looked like a deer in torchlight— eyes wide, back straight, shoulders locked… 

“What do you think?”

She looked down at her hands, where they lay fisted between her crossed legs. 

“No,” she said, voice small. Then she cleared her throat, and spoke louder: “The Fel, I think… from chaos. Destruction. Dis… dis-order?”

“And why do you think that?” 

She got even stiffer. Her gaze flicked to Jaina— who did her best to put on an encouraging smile despite her irritation at Ysuria for pressuring the girl, and nodded faintly… 

“The Fel hard to… _is_ hard to control," said Atsurana. "Like wild thing, wants to escape. To devour. Its… effects, they are… diff-rent, and un-predict-able, but always dest-ruct-ive.” 

“Very good,” said Ysuria, and looked away, and Jaina _saw_ some of the tension bleed out of the young orc’s posture. “Fel is the physical manifestation of Disorder. What we call ‘corruption’ is the result of Fel magic entering and disrupting the natural order of a living thing. This is why its users, warlocks, gradually become more and more twisted by it. It is the most dangerous and unpredictable form of magic, and has no place among civilized peoples.” 

Trust an elf to describe it in terms of ‘civilization’... 

“The opposite of the Fel,” said Ysuria, “that is, the physical manifestation or Order, is what we call ‘Arcane.’ Who can tell me about Arcane magic?” 

Silence as the apprentices thought. 

“You mean the white stuff?” asked Jerrick. “Purple sometimes?”

“Why do you say that?”

“Well, ‘cuz I’ve heard it from vets. Folks who fought in the First an’ Second Wars— they say human mages countered their warlocks with purple magic. Like those portals Her Ladyship makes.”

“Correct.” Ysuria turned, surveying the students around her. “Arcane magic— which appears white or violet to the eye, is the manifestation of Order. It holds the cosmos together. When Lady Frostfire creates a portal, she is using those same energies to ever-so-slightly bend the natural Order of the universe— thus the color. Arcane magic, generally speaking, can be used to bend the world to your will. While shamans, for example, interact directly with the elements, mages use the Arcane to manipulate them.”

Several apprentices looked concerned by that, but Ysuria didn’t seem to notice. 

“That’s Order and Disorder,” she said. “What of Life and Death?” 

A Tauren woman raised her hand. 

“Yes, Kaipa?”

“Druids.” 

“Go on.”

“Druids…” she huffed, then turned to the troll beside her, and muttered something in Taurahe. 

“Druids work to maintain the balance of the wild,” he translated. “They heal. They encourage growth. Is that not Life magic, by this book-bound reckoning?”

“It is,” said Ysuria. 

More Taurahe. Then: “Then they are the opposite of… death-users. Necro…?”

“Necromancers, yes. Correct!” 

As the discussion continued, Jaina found herself watching Atsurana more than any other. 

The girl did not speak again. Her posture remained stiff and guarded, though less so than when she had been asked to speak. Jaina could see the curiosity barely hidden below the surface, her expression subtly shifting as she silently pondered and translated. 

But then they moved from theory to practice. 

“I am told,” said Ysuria, “that several of you already make regular use of your magic. If you are comfortable doing so, I would like to see what you can do, that we may examine it in the light of what we have read and discussed.” 

Several quiet moments passed while the students absorbed and interpreted the words. 

Then Atsurana perked up. “I can bring fire.” She frowned, nose scrunching, and corrected herself: “I can _make_ fire.” 

“So I’ve heard,” said Ysuria, glancing at Jaina. “Show us.” 

The girl somehow straightened up even further, drawing her shoulders back, and cupped her hands in front of her. Like an illusion lifting, all traces of self-consciousness seemed to evaporate from her. She closed her eyes and breathed deep, the faintest crease of concentration between her brows… 

And on the exhale, a small flame glowed quietly into being in the air above her palms. 

“Well done,” said Ysuria. 

Atsurana’s eyes remained closed, but her lips twitched into a small, proud smile. She took another breath, and the flame swelled. 

“This is elemental magic.” Ysuria looked around at the other apprentices. “It is distinct from shamanism— rather than enlisting the aid of a fire spirit, Atsurana is feeding the flame directly. Her mana is the fuel, and the air around her the reagent.” 

The flame was like that of a torch now, and growing with each breath the girl took. Her eyes were still closed, her face tight with concentration. 

Not looking at the fire she was conjuring. 

Jaina glanced at Ysuria, who was still lecturing, focused on speaking slowly and clearly for all those who spoke Common as a second, third, or fourth language…

Atsurana took another deep breath. 

Her sleeve caught on fire. 

Beside her, the tauren Temesh made a startled noise in the back of his throat. 

Atsurana’s eyes snapped wide open as she felt the burn— and in her panic, she momentarily forgot to mind her mana. In a heartbeat the flame had doubled in size, consuming the girls sleeve, Temesh falling back in fear, Ysuria turning in surprise—

Jaina extinguished it with a flick of her wrist. 

Silence fell over the tower… broken only by the heavy footfalls rushing up the steps. 

“Milady!” A guardsman stepped onto the landing, breathing heavily and flushed with exertion. “Terribly sorry t’interrupt, Milady, but—” 

But she was already standing, holding herself tall and proud, staff ready. “Report.” 

“We just stopped a fight, Ma’am— between two of the embassy guards. It _looked_ like they were about to fight, at least. They’re saying… we don’t know what they’re saying, or what started it. Their fellows seem fine with it. We haven’t arrested anyone, but…”

But they weren’t sure how to handle it.

Alright. 

_All in a day’s work, Jaina. Just ignore that sinking feeling._

“Show me.” 

  
  
  


*****

  
  
  


It was Ngashk, because of course it was. 

She stood before the entrance to the embassy, clad in her battle-scarred armor, glaring bloody murder at the orcish man in front of her. 

He looked familiar, though Jaina couldn’t think of his name— long, straight hair topknotted in the style of the Warsong, facial tattoos across his heavy brow, a spiked club across his back… 

He was staring right back at her, ignoring the several city guards standing nervously between them. Other Kor’kron stood flanking the entrance, looking interested but in no way worried. 

“Packleader!” Jaina called, quickening her steps. “What is the meaning of this?” 

Ngashk saluted her without fully turning away from the man, still staring him down. Only once mere paces lay between them did she meet Jaina’s gaze. 

Then she grunt-huffed, jaw clenched, fury simmering in her hazel eyes, and growled: 

_“Mak’gora.”_

...shit. 

Sandals scuffed stone steps. Jaina glanced to the embassy doors, and saw Farseer Yaghna stepping out, flanked by Ariok and Tsaadu… who _did_ look worried. 

Jaina swallowed dryly. Wet her lips. 

“I will not stand in the way of your traditions,” she said, looking evenly between the two warriors, “but I will need a full explanation before I can allow this.” 

“He challenges,” said Ngashk. 

Jaina turned to the tattooed warrior, one eyebrow raised. 

“Hun rugar’gao Golgonnashar ri _thazag_ embassy,” he spat. “Akhri _hrajak_ gesh’kava ro kilazi.” 

_The Warchief sent us here to protect the embassy. Not to ------ humans and trolls._

“Brogotan issued the challenge,” Tsaadu said coldly. “He believes the Packleader’s choice of bedmates demonstrates some kind of disloyalty.” 

Jaina blinked. 

She looked at Brogotan. 

Brogotan glared at Ngashk. 

Ngashk glared back. 

_“Excuse_ me?” 

“She is more focused on women than on her duty.” Brogotan spoke Common as if every word of it turned his stomach. “Not even _orcish_ women.”

Zogrim, standing beside Ngashk, spat on the ground. “She does not want you, pup. She did not want you before, and she will not want you after she has beaten you into the dirt.” 

Oh. 

... _really?_

Jaina stepped closer to Ngashk, to look more directly up into her eyes. “Am I to understand this man has made unwanted advances toward you?”

Ngashk’s eyes never left Brogotan’s. 

“For months. Yes.” 

Jaina could feel a headache coming on. She looked to Yaghna, the highest-ranking diplomat present. Yaghna glanced at Tsaadu, who was looking at Ngashk, worry radiating from every inch of her lithe frame. 

The Farseer met Jaina’s eyes again, and nodded ever-so-slightly. 

Tidesdammit. 

The more embittered sectors of Theramore society were going to have a field day with this. 

But Mak’gora wasn’t _too_ far from the formal dueling customs of the Eastern Kingdoms. She’d have to do some paperwork, talk to Logan, issue a decree… 

She sighed. 

“Guardsman.” She turned to the runner who’d fetched her. “Summon the City Council.”

  
  
  


*****

  
  
  


The City Council wasn’t happy, and Jaina couldn’t blame them. They were generally almost as busy as she was, and this was supposed to be one of their days off. 

And now they had to reexamine their legal codes because of one jealous, arrogant man. 

Jaina would just teleport him somewhere unpleasant if it wouldn’t create more problems. 

“Let me get this straight.” Jon Edmundson, Theramore’s most affluent merchant, tapped his cigar over an ashtray on the large, round table between them. “These… Core-Crone want to resolve a minor breach of etiquette by brawling in the street, and you’re asking us to make it legal?” 

Jaina exhaled the urge to snipe back. “Were it a minor issue, I would never have dreamed of inconveniencing you all with it.” 

“Of course.” Edmundson bowed his head, still frowning. 

“Ngashk is the commander of all Kor’kron stationed in Theramore,” Jaina went on, “and Brogotan’s… _breach of etiquette_ has, unfortunately, culminated in him formally challenging her to a duel. That is what Mak’gora means: a duel for, or regarding, one’s honor.” 

Viridiel Silverlight, elected representative of Theramore’s High Elves, knit his ring-laden fingers together on the tabletop. “It’s a political issue, then.”

“Yes— simply forbidding it will only cause friction with the Orcs. Mak’gora is one of their oldest and most trusted traditions.” 

Someone scoffed. Jaina pretended not to have heard. 

She hoped Atsurana was alright. That Ysuria hadn’t given her _too_ stern a talking-to. She’d only been trying to impress them. 

“I would like to review our dueling laws,” Jaina said after a pause. “While the weapons and ritual may differ, the core concept of human and elven dueling traditions and Mak’gora are not so different.”

“Not so different?” Edmundson gnawed on his cigar. “As I understand it, if this Brogton fellow wins, he’d replace her as commander, yes?”

“That’s correct.” 

“That’s _daft._ It takes more than combat prowess to command troops well.” 

“I agree,” said Jaina. 

He frowned, but quieted. 

“Brogotan _would_ be a horrible commander,” she continued, “but he won’t _become_ commander. I have personally seen Ngashk prevail when outnumbered by opponents both stronger and more desperate than her. We are not discussing giving Brogotan the chance to steal her position— we are discussing whether or not to allow Ngashk, the Warchief’s chosen military representative in Theramore, to maintain her legitimacy and defend her right to refuse unwanted advances via the method customary among her people.”

Viridiel crossed his silk-draped legs. “An especially bloody form of political theater. Why am I not surprised?” 

Jaina resisted the urge to roll her eyes. 

“Can we back up?” asked Vittoria Caldwell of the stonemasons, who looked like she’d much rather be asleep. “What exactly would this honor-duel entail? I’d rather not have a dead orc in the marketplace." 

_Again_ went unsaid, but understood.

“We wouldn’t," Jaina said much more calmly than she felt. "Traditionally, Mak’gora _was_ a duel to the death, but the Warchief put a stop to that. The duelists now fight only until one of them is unable to continue— typically unconsciousness. Submission is considered so dishonorable it may as well be forbidden.” A few of the councilors visibly relaxed upon hearing that, but only slightly. Jaina could only imagine what sort of bloodbath they’d been picturing. 

“It bears mentioning,” she added, “that resolving a conflict such as this with firearms, as is customary in Kul Tiras and Gilneas, is as barbaric from the orcish perspective as a bare-knuckled brawl seems to some humans.” 

Some Humans pretended they didn’t know _what_ she was talking about. Several fidgeted minutely. 

“If we are to retain the respect of the Horde and elevate our position within it,” she carefully did _not_ look at Edmundson, but saw him become slightly more attentive out of the corner of her eye— “we must at the very _least_ demonstrate respect for their traditions.” 

“Interesting,” mused Lord Woodgardt, without whose grain they would have all starved halfway across the sea. “I seem to remember a promise concerning certain rituals and traditions. What was it? _‘Our ways will remain our own?’”_

Jaina found herself grateful for her court training. The ability to wear a calm, interested expression like a mask was always so useful whenever Woodgardt opened his pompous mouth. 

He wasn’t even trying to oppose her, this time. He probably didn’t even _care_ about this. He just wanted to remind them all of how much sway he had. How much of an obstacle he _could_ be, if he saw fit. 

And Jaina had to humor him as if we _was_ making himself an obstacle. 

Did Thrall have to deal with this shit? Did he have to go out of his way to appease the clan chiefs to resolve mundane issues? 

Normally she would make a mental note to ask him in her next letter. 

Normally she wouldn’t have the opportunity to ask him while she slept. 

**_Focus,_ ** _Jaina._

She put on a polite smile, and proceeded to make Woodgardt feel important. 

  
  
  


It took five hours. 

Two forms of dueling were already legal in Theramore— but only as methods of resolving insults to one’s reputation. One could elevate themselves socially by winning such a duel, but could not lay claim to the position of their defeated opponent. 

Jaina had to repeatedly reassure the Council that she bore no intent to change that. In the bleary-eyed, hoarse, irrationally irritated end, they did not legalize Mak’gora specifically, but instead expanded the preexisting Heritage Act, which enshrined and protected the right of all residents of Theramore to practice the traditions of their people, so long as those traditions brought no harm or disorder to the general populace. 

The dueling laws, however, still applied. 

Any bout, whether it be fought with blades, firearms, or fists, was to take place in the city square just after dawn, before it could seriously obstruct the market, but where it would still inconvenience the early risers, so that it might still be frowned upon, rather than glorified. 

Both parties were to bring capable healers, and were to be supervised by a representative of the City Guard personally appointed by the current general (who was still, on paper, ‘General Lorena Blackwood.’ She didn’t want to pressure Logan, as his situation was still very uncommon among humans, but she loathed having to refer to him by wrong pronouns. She’d taken to calling him ‘General Blackwood,’ which had lead some of the guardsmen to think there’d been a falling-out between them.) 

Jaina dispatched a runner to the embassy with this information, and bought the Council several rounds at the tavern as thanks. It was dark out by the time she made it back to her tower, the streetlamps casting warm light over the cobblestones, the sea breeze finally prevailing over the humidity of the marsh. 

She used the teleportation circle in the vestibule to reach her office, and walked to her rooms. She’d taken to magically sealing them after the invasion, and the tray bearing the bags of herbs sat just outside the door. 

Jaina greeted the guards that flanked it —Garner and Mudd— took the bags, and slipped into the darkness of her quarters.

Pained shut the door behind her, and laid a hand on her shoulder, between the epaulet and her neck. 

_I’m here._ Not pushing, just offering. 

Jaina sighed, letting the polite mask fall from her face, relaxing out of her regal posture. 

“It was,” she said. “From the Warchief. The letter.” 

Pained gave a squeeze, then let her hand fall away to slip the herbs from Jaina’s grasp and deposit them on the table in the corner, where Jaina kept her alchemy supplies. Soft orange light bloomed across the flag-draped walls as she lit a lantern.

“Would you mind grinding those up?” Jaina asked.

“Not at all.” 

Jaina sat on her bed. Freed her hair from its braid. Stretched her neck, and felt and heard it pop. 

“He has sensitive information for me. He thinks letters and scrying orbs aren’t secure enough, so he…” Fuck. “He’s going to visit my dreams tonight.” 

Pained’s hand stilled on the mortal and pestle. For a moment she neither moved nor spoke. Then her lips twitched and thinned, repressing a smile. 

“Don’t laugh at me! What am I going to _do?_ He said my mind would _determine the form he takes!”_

Pained started grinding the herbs again, now grinning. “Do you dream of him often?”

Jaina’s cheeks felt warm again. “No, but when I _do…”_ She trailed off, silently begging Pained to take her meaning without _details._

The night elf hummed. “So the chances you will be dreaming of him when he visits are fairly low.”

“They _would_ be, had I not been thinking about him all day!”

Pained gave her a long, intent look then, smile fading. She set the mortar down and crossed the floor to sit beside Jaina on the bed. 

“This is more than lust,” she said softly. 

“...it is.”

Pained sighed. 

Rain began to softly patter the windows. 

“The herbs are for tea?”

Jaina nodded. Her bodyguard stood, and set to it. 

When a mug sat steaming on the bedside table, Pained crossed her arms and leaned against the wall, ears relaxed in thought. 

“You have been trying not to feel this,” she said at last. 

Tides damn her for being so attentive. “To no avail.” 

“Of course not.” Her voice was soft. “You cannot just push such feelings down and expect them to disappear. A river dammed will rise and spill over."

Jaina could feel tears gathering, waiting to be shed. “Then what am I supposed to do? He’s not _human,_ Pained. If the people knew I was even _thinking_ these things, we’d have hundreds more mutineers on our hands. They would think me biased, blinded by my— my fucking _infatuation._ I would lose their trust.” 

“Your heart doesn’t know that, Jaina. If you want these feelings to pass, you must allow them to flow." 

“But—”

“You and Thrall are remarkable people. Brave, clever, _strong_ people, who would do anything for the good of your subjects. Trust him, and trust yourself. It will take more than inconvenient feelings to drive a wedge between you.”

“You can’t know that.”

“No. But I have faith in you.” 

Aaand there were the tears. Fuck. “Every time we have a real conversation, I end up crying.” 

“We all have to cry sometime. I am honored that you feel safe enough to do so in my presence.” 

That just made the tears come faster. Jaina wiped at them with the heels of her palms. “Pained…”

_I don’t know what I’d do without you._

_You’re like the big sister I never had._

_I love you._

She couldn’t say any of it. Even _thinking_ it frightened her, quickening her heart and mind as if in battle… 

Why? 

Pained sat on the bed again, and put an arm around her. “You have endured more and shouldered more responsibility than anyone your age should have to. It’s alright to cry. I’d be worried if you _didn’t_ cry.” 

Jaina rested her head on her bodyguard’s shoulder, sniffling. 

When the tears had stopped, and her eyelids were drooping, Pained pressed the mug of tea into her hands. 

“Drink. Rest. Whatever your dreams bring, you will prevail. This I know.” 

  
  
  
  


*****

  
  
  


Rough hands shoved her forward into the cell, too fast for her to catch herself. She fell, knees and palms cracking against the cold stone. 

“Traitor.” The guard spat on her and slammed the door shut, plunging the small, square room into darkness. 

The lock ground into place, and Jaina was alone. 

She retreated into the corner, pressing her back to the wall and drawing her knees to her chest. 

_Race-traitor._

_Orc-lover._

_Harlot._

Footsteps. 

Boots. Standard issue for the City Guard. 

Jaina’s heart sank. 

_Just a dream it’s just a_ **_dream_ **

But the herbs made it clear. Vivid. Sharp. 

The footsteps stopped in front of the door. Grey eyes peered through the small, barred window, dark brows creased in disappointment. 

“Logan—” Jaina rasped. 

“Don’t.” His voice was cold and hard as the stone at her back. “You don’t get to say my name. Not after you _slipped_ in front of the Council.” 

“General, then.” She blinked back tears. “I am _so_ sorry—”

“General?” The creases deepened to angry furrows, and there were tears in _his_ eyes too— “I’m _not_ the General anymore, Jaina. I’m not even a soldier. They stripped me of my command when they learned my secret.”

“I never meant to hurt you.” 

He averted his eyes, as if she was too disgusting to look at. “Maybe I should be thanking you. I won’t have to lead them all to their deaths when the Alliance comes. We should have given you to them when they asked.” 

She shut her eyes then, hugging her legs closer. 

“I believed in you, Jaina.” 

His footsteps echoed quieter and quieter through the stale air of the cell block. Faded entirely. 

Then she was alone once more. 

_Not real. Just a dream._

Jaina pinched herself. Nothing happened. 

**_Clunk._ **

A weight against the door. 

“Runaz-nukh.” 

Jaina didn’t want to look, but the dream didn’t care. It forced her too, opened her eyes to meet that smouldering hazel gaze. 

She swallowed, throat dry. “Packleader.”

Oh Tides, what had she done to this woman?

“The Warchief has called us back to Orgrimmar.” Her voice was tired. Hoarse. Defeated. “We leave at dawn.”

What? Why would…?

“I did not want this," said Ngashk. "Were it up to me, I would defend you to the last, as you would us. But without the ships you promised…” She sighed, and hung her head. “We cannot hold both Theramore and Orgrimmar. I am sorry.”

Then with a huff and a clink of chains, she too was gone. 

_Just a dream just a dream just a dream_ —

The air went even colder. The torchlight from outside fluttered and dimmed. 

Burning red eyes glared into the cell. 

“There you are.” 

Jaina screwed her eyes shut, cowering back into her dark corner. 

It didn't help. The Banshee might as well have been looming over her, leeching the heat from her body, steel claws reaching out...

“Sheltered from the chaos above by your own failure." Her voice reverberated oddly through the cell, making Jaina's ears hurt. "At least until they surrender you to the Alliance, to buy the High King’s mercy.” 

“Please stop.”

“Do you think you deserve that? A reprieve?”

 _No. If this came to pass I would deserve every **second** of torment _—

“Don’t worry. You will reap what you sowed… _after_ they execute you.” 

Jaina’s blood ran cold. 

“You will know the curse you brought upon millions with your cowardice. You will know what it is to be reviled by those who once claimed to love you. What it is to be twisted by undeath, until all that remains is bitter vengeance… but you will have no one to blame but yourself.” 

Tears blurred Jaina’s vision. 

“Until later, Lady Frostfire.” 

The Banshee Queen passed from her awareness like mist in the wind. 

Then something shook the Keep above her, something that shattered windows and cracked stone. Jaina could hear screams, echoing down through the corridors, the crack of pistols, the clash of swords—

Again the Keep shook, and stones fell in the hallway outside. Pikes clattered to the floor, and the guards shouted: 

_“We yield! This traitor’s not worth dying for!”_

_“Please, take her—_ _just spare us!”_

A gunshot. Two. 

Armored bodies clattering to the floor. 

Footsteps. Stiff military heels, marching over stone. 

“Open it.” A woman’s voice. A Kul Tiran accent, noble. 

_No no no_ no—

Keys jangled. The lock turned, iron grinding on iron. 

The door screeched open, and soldiers rushed in to seize Jaina by the arms, hauling her to her feet and forcing her forward, down the bloodstained hall, past the bodies of Theramore guardsmen and—

Needle-sharp pain pierced Jaina’s heart. She drew a ragged, teary breath.

Pained lay sprawled on the cold stone, leathers dark with blood, eyes open and empty, daggers still clutched in her hands. 

_“No!”_ Jaina sobbed. 

The soldiers shoved her forward, away from the only sister she’d ever known, out of the hallway and into blinding sunlight. 

Jaina blinked and squinted, unable to shield her eyes, bare toes scraping on the rough ground as she stumbled forward—

Towards the gallows. 

A noose hung ready, swaying in the crisp Boralus wind, and through it Jaina saw hundreds of people staring up at her, yelling and jeering, throwing fruit and stones and slurs. 

The soldiers yanked her still in front of the noose. 

“Jaina Frostfire.”

That woman’s voice again, frigid with disdain behind her.

“You have betrayed your people. You have failed everyone who ever trusted you. You murdered your own father, and insodoing doomed the people of Theramore. For these crimes, I, Lord Admiral Katherine Proudmoore, sentence you to hang by the neck until dead.” 

Jaina shut her eyes again, heart aching, bracing for the roar of the crowd… 

But none came. 

A hush had fallen, broken only by startled murmurs.

She looked past the noose dangling before her, down at the people… 

And found the crowd parting down the middle, carefully backing out of the way of a huge white wolf. 

It padded silently across the square, looking at Jaina all the while. 

The hands of the soldiers melted away, but she did not, could not look around. Somewhere in the back of her mind, she knew she would not see her mother’s face. She didn’t remember it well enough for so lucid a dream. 

In a single flowing movement, the wolf leapt onto the gallows… and Jaina saw its eyes. 

Blue-grey, like the sky before a storm. Gazing at her with unwavering calm, unwavering trust. 

Jaina reached out, and lay her hand on the soft fur between Thrall's ears.

The world melted and swirled around them, the grey skyline of Boralus fading away into the Tiragarde fog. 

**_I’m sorry, Jaina._ **

She crumpled against him, clinging tighter to his fur. 

He smelled the same. Like leather, woodsmoke, the earthy spice of his own natural scent… 

**_The herbs… if I’d known it would mean such torment for you, I never would have commanded this._ **

_It’s alright,_ she lied. _You wouldn’t have made it a command if you didn’t have to._

She felt more than heard him sigh— the swelling of his torso, regret and guilt washing over her like a gentle wave… 

_His_ regret and guilt. 

“All the same,” he said. A warm, callused hand touched her shoulder, startling her into looking up—

It wasn’t _his_ fur she was gripping, now— it was the fur that hemmed his wide leather belt. 

She let go, and leapt to her feet, surprised to feel shoes around them, between her and the… cave floor? 

Yes— a large cavern, lit by the fire beside her, bedrolls and travel packs resting against the walls. She could hear the wind howling outside, but could not see the entrance. There were other fires burning further in, casting long shadows onto curved walls, voices laughing and talking… 

“Is this… Alterac?” She turned back to Thrall— and promptly lost her train of thought. 

He wasn’t wearing his armor. 

He wasn’t wearing very much at _all,_ other than that wolf-pelt girdle. His feet were bare on the cavern floor, his thick thighs and powerful torso bare to the warm light of the fire. 

“Yes, this is where…” oh Tides he’d _noticed her staring,_ and looked down at himself— “Oh. That’s odd.” 

_Your mind will determine the form I take._

Shit. 

“Jaina?” 

She distantly realized she was wearing her full uniform again, but it really didn’t seem that important when he was half-naked and looking at her with that soft, caring concern, every rugged line of him accentuated by the firelight… 

“Are you… how are you?” 

Oh no. She had _felt_ his regret— could he feel her… fuck, her _everything?_

“I’m…” She took a steadying breath, which only made her wonder about the exact workings of this dream-state— had her body just taken a deep breath, or was she beyond it, somehow? Thrall’s body was leagues and leagues away, so they must be outside their physical selves in some sense… 

“I’m alright,” she murmured, mind still racing. 

Thrall was smiling, now, and with it came a warm, fond feeling, almost like an echo of how she felt when… 

When he comforted her after the invasion. 

When he welcomed her to the Horde. 

Was this… how _he_ felt for _her?_

Her heart skipped a beat. 

“I’ll explain everything later,” he said. “I know how confusing this can be, the first time.”

Later. Right— the Ambassador, the information— 

“Golgonnashar.” She stood tall and thumped her chest. “What’s happened? What have you learned?”

The smile faded from his face… and the warm feeling waned. Not all the way, but stronger now was apprehension. 

“The Dark Lady,” he said, crouching beside the fire, “apparently, she sent scouts into the ruins of Dalaran, with orders to map the area and recover any magical artifacts that might be of use to the Forsaken.”

A sickly feeling coiled in her chest, and somehow she knew it was hers, not his. 

She knelt on a bear pelt an arm’s length from him. “What did they find?”

“Sentry golems, patrolling… and a massive dome of arcane energy concealing the city center. Impenetrable by conventional methods.” 

Jaina could hear her pulse in her ears.

 _Massive, impenetrable_ — it would take a team of powerful mages to cast such a spell. A team of _archmages._

They’d survived. 

They’d _survived._

A weight lifted from Jaina’s chest. 

“I…” _need to contact them. Need to find out who lived, what their allegiances are, if we can make allies of them_ — “How do I wake up from this?”

“I can wake you.” His fingers twitched where they were interlaced in his lap, and he looked down at the pelt beneath her, wetting his lips. “I didn’t mean to make you see your fears so vividly, Jaina. I’m sorry. I won’t make you do this again.” 

“Don’t say that.” She itched to lean closer, to put her hand on his, _in_ his, but stopped herself. “You were right. This _is_ the most secure way we have of communicating— and we can work on devising other ways, but… I can’t ask you to put my comfort before the safety of the Horde, Thrall.” 

That fond feeling returned tenfold, tinged with guilt but still warming Jaina more than the fire beside them, making her ache to close the distance between them… 

And only some of it was coming from her. 

Their eyes met, his wide and firelit. Every line of his body was tense… but she didn’t feel any discomfort radiating from him. 

Only… fear. 

Jaina’s heart sank. 

What had she _just_ told Pained, earlier that night? 

_We can’t._

Their people wouldn’t understand, would lose trust in them…. 

... _if_ they knew. 

Because this was a dream.

A dream they were meeting in specifically because no one could intercept it or spy on it. 

And she could _feel_ him wanting her, more and more every moment. It pulsed hot in her core, attuned her every sense to his muscular, firelit form, his stormy eyes, his intoxicating scent… 

She swallowed, throat dry.

“Thrall…” 

A muscle flexed in his jaw. 

“Maybe…” her voice was barely more than a whisper, cheeks flushed, heart pounding— “maybe we should meet like this more often.” 

His gaze fell to her lips, then quickly darted to her freckles, her eyes— 

_“Jaina.”_ He all but _growled,_ voice rough with longing she could feel as if it were her own. She shivered, and bit her lip, and with a silent prayer to the Tides reached out, towards his face—

He pressed his palm to her forehead. 

Jaina had a split second to savor the dry warmth of it before she was staring at the empty mug on her bedside table, the pillow wet against her cheek. 

Fuck. 

_What have I done?_

  
  
  


*******

  
  
  


Aegwynn woke to a pounding on her door. She rolled away from the cursed noise, and ended up facing the window. It was still dark outside. 

The pounding came again, and Aegwynn longed for the days when she could teleport unwanted guests across a city without expending even a hundredth of her mana. 

“What?” She groaned. 

_“Aegwynn I need your help!”_

Jaina.

Shit. 

“This better be fucking _dire,_ kid.” 

_“The Kirin Tor live!”_

She blinked. Stared out the window. 

“Nope,” she said, and closed her eyes again. 

_“Aegwynn, please—”_

Sometimes, just a little, she regretted sticking around here. 

  
  
  


*****

  
  
  


Aegwynn, ex-Guardian of Tirisfal, Vanquisher of the Avatar of Sargeras, Mother of Medivh, and Chamberlain of Theramore, hunched like a gargoyle over a mug of coffee while Jaina bustled frantically around her study, rifling through drawers and rearranging shelves. More than one book ended up on the floor— which was somewhat of a red flag, but Aegwynn wasn’t quite awake enough to start analyzing. 

“This has waited four years,” said Ysuria, who didn’t look much better off. “Why exactly can’t it wait a few more hours?” 

She’d gone with tea over coffee, and was holding herself up via elbows on Jaina’s desk. 

“Because,” said Jaina, casting another floating magelight over her shoulder and _not_ turning to look at them, “I have an extremely busy day ahead of me, and— and we can’t give the Alliance any more time to poison the Kirin Tor against us.” 

Ysuria and Aegwynn exchanged a concerned glance. 

There was something she wasn’t telling them. 

“You know,” said Aegwynn, “I happen to have a few centuries of experience dealing with the Kirin Tor.” 

“Yes, and you think they’re all ‘a bunch of stubborn, self-important shut-ins.’ I’m aware.” Jaina got down on her knees to slide a sea-chest out from under a cabinet and start rooting around in it. “Don’t worry, I won’t make you talk to them.” 

“Your Ladyship is most generous.” 

Jaina didn’t even shoot her a glare. This was serious. 

‘This’ being whatever she was trying to distract herself from. 

Aegwynn was willing to bet the Warchief’s letter had something to do with it. 

Young love. 

_Ugh._

“Ha!” Jaina stood, a jar of white powder clutched in her hands. 

Tervosh glanced up from his tea. “Is that chalk?”

“Bone powder.” Jaina set it down on the desk with a _clunk._ “From Dalaran. From _residents_ of Dalaran who spent their entire lives bathed in the city’s energies.” 

Aegwynn frowned. “Since when do the Kirin Tor keep shit like this around?” 

“They don’t,” said Jaina, whisking the handkerchief off her scrying orb. Then she started moving things _off_ the desk— books, papers, paperweights, empty mugs… 

Ysuria picked up her mug and leaned out of the way. “What exactly is the plan here?”

“Prior to the Third War, Dalaran maintained a teleportation-based mail system to allow for rapid, secure communication between mages throughout the Eastern Kingdoms.”

“And you want to tap into the echoes of it.” 

“I was thinking more in terms of ‘well-worn path,’ but yes.” 

Tervosh eyed the jar in front of them. “Bone dust as reagent, orb as portal focus?” 

Jaina nodded anxiously. 

Aegwynn straightened her back with a few pops and a groan, tossed back her coffee, and said: “Let’s get to it.” 

  
  
  


*******

  
  
  


Violet light danced erratically within the scrying orb, spilling past its smooth surface in ever-more-frequent flashes, illuminating the experimental tetragram drawn in powdered bone on the desk around it. 

Across the desk from her sat Aegwynn, and to either side Tervosh and Ysuria, hands linked in a circle and glowing with arcane energy as they chanted together. 

_“Ach pareth’aras acha murabar— ullaman acha takan— shalarom ghiromas shalarom Dalaran—”_

All around them, papers fluttered wildly. 

_“Shalarom ghiromas shalarom_ **_Dalaran—”_ **

The windowpanes began to rattle. 

**_“Shalarom ghiromas shalarom Dalaran!”_ **

Jaina squinted against the light, and with a single tendril of thought levitated a small leather scroll-case before her, toward the nexus of the spell. 

**_“Shalarom ghiromas shalarom Dalaran!”_ **

She could feel the resistance of four thousand miles like a fog between them and their target— but beyond that a beacon of residual spellwork, centuries worth of it, beckoning **_—_ **

**_“Shalarom ghiromas shalarom Dalaran!”_ **

And then the spell connected. A hand-sized portal flared into existence above the scrying orb, fluctuating wildly **_—_ **

Jaina pushed the scroll into it, and let go. 

For a moment, she was blinded, a circle of light seared into her eyes. She blinked again and again, hands finding purchase on the desk— and finding it charged with static. 

Chairs creaked as the other mages sat back. 

_“Phew!”_ Aegwynn’s voice. “Never a dull moment around here, is there?”

“If you find one,” said Jaina, still effectively blind, “do let me know.”

“Sky’s lightening up,” said Tervosh. “Don’t you have a beatdown to attend?”

  
  
  
  


*****

  
  
  
  


The first rays of sunlight shone softly through the fog over Theramore. A few gulls could be heard, their calls echoing across the city. 

Heavy orcish boots scuffed the cobblestones. Thick black braids swayed as Ngashk prowled back and forth, torso bare save for a sturdy chest-wrap, battle-forged muscles shifting smoothly beneath dark green skin. She bared her fangs with a growl, glaring across the square at her opponent. 

Jaina turned her head in time to see Brogotan snarl back and thump his tattooed chest just once, violently fast. 

Odd how a slight difference in speed could turn a salute into a challenge. 

Standing between the two, she glanced back and forth. 

Brogotan’s torso was streaked with pigment— the red and white of the Warsong Clan.

Ngashk bore no colors save for the drab browns of her clothing.

_There_ **_is_ ** _no Burning Blade Clan. Not anymore._

People lingered around the edges of the square, vendors and buyers who had stopped in their tracks to watch. They stood in doorways, sat in the beds of their carts or atop their barrels, all waiting to see what the two half-naked orcs were up to. The guards interspersed among them looked slightly stiffer than usual, but that could have just been Jaina projecting. 

Tsaadu, however… 

It was almost jarring to see the ambassador look so tense. 

She stood a stone’s throw behind Ngashk, slender fingers knotted together, face drawn and eyes wide. Beside her stood Farseer Yaghna, who was present both as the officiant and Ngashk’s healer, and General Logan, whose motivations for attending in person had less to do with it being an historic first and more to do with _‘Oh, I am_ **_not_ ** _missing this.’_

Jaina had to agree. 

She had never enjoyed the sight of violence, no matter how necessary, but having seen the brutal grace with which Ngashk wielded a blade… 

Besides, no one was going to die here. 

Hopefully. 

Somewhere in the tenements, a rooster crowed. 

Jaina raised her staff, and knocked it twice on the cobblestones. The sound rang loud through the still morning air, and the two orcs stopped their pacing to watch her. Ngashk knelt. Brogotan hesitated, frowning deeply, then followed suit. 

Jaina took a deep breath, and spoke loudly enough for everyone in the square could hear. 

“Brogotan, warrior of the Warchief’s honor guard, alleges that Ngashk, Packleader of that honor guard, has demonstrated disloyalty to the orcish race, making her unfit to command, and has challenged her to Mak’gora— a duel in the tradition of their people, the victor of which will be Packleader. Ngashk accepts his challenge, but alleges that Brogotan has repeatedly propositioned her despite her clear disinterest, and that his allegations stem not from honor, but from jealousy.”

She turned her attention to the warriors.

“This is not Orgrimmar," she said. "The victor will not be cheered or lauded. Though we recognize the grim necessity of this duel and have broadened our laws to allow it, I ask that you be aware that the people of Theramore have no love of violence. Do what you must, and _only_ what you must.” 

Ngashk looked away from Brogotan for the first time since she’d arrived to meet Jaina’s gaze, and salute her. Brogotan merely nodded. 

Jaina stepped back, giving the warriors plenty of room. 

“You may begi—”

Brogotan burst off the ground into a sprint, charging full tilt across the square. 

Ngashk didn’t move— not until he was practically on top of her, ready to tackle—

She spun on the balls of her feet, out of his path, dropping low and scything her leg out to sweep his feet out from under him. His momentum sent him flying to the unforgiving cobblestones, but he rolled forward head-over-heels and back onto his feet in an instant, snarling, chest heaving. 

Ngashk paced calmly around him, muscles relaxed. 

They circled. Jaina saw the fury contorting Brogotan’s features, the fierce, stoic focus in Ngashk’s eyes—

She saw his feet slide apart, signaling his intent before he charged in once again. 

Ngashk was ready. 

She sidestepped, parried his haymaker with her forearm, and snapped her knuckles into his face. His head jerked back, arms coming up into a boxing guard an instant too late to stop her other fist from _thudding_ into his solar plexus with all her weight behind it. He grunted, stumbling, but planted one foot behind him and lashed out with his right, missing Ngashk’s jaw by inches as she darted to his side—

She seized him by the throat and drove forward, planted her foot behind his to trip him again and _lifted,_ shoulders and arms flexing rock-hard—

Then she slammed him flat on the ground.

Jaina _heard_ his head bounce off the cobblestones, and jolted, taking a half-step forward to put a stop to it—

But Brogotan’s flailing arms went limp, his head lolled, and he was out. 

Ngashk let go, and stepped back. Turned to Jaina. Bowed her head, and thumped her heaving chest. 

For a moment, the square was silent. 

Someone started clapping. 

Jaina turned toward the sound, and found Mayana Miller sitting on the table of a fruit stall, an apple held in her mouth as she applauded, a delighted smile in her eyes.

And Jaina couldn’t even find it in herself to be irritated by the defiance of her implicit order. 

She’d seen Ngashk fight before, but… 

He hadn’t even _touched_ her. 

Jaina planted her feet a bit further apart, and felt her smallclothes cling. 

_Tides._

Cheeks warming, she gripped her staff, cleared her throat, and called out: “Well fought.” 

Ngashk’s full lips curled into a smile. Then with a nod, she turned and walked toward Tsaadu, passing Yaghna on the way. 

The old shaman knelt over Brogotan’s prone body, watching until his chest rose and fell with a shallow breath before palming his head and closing her eyes. Her wizened lips moved as she quietly chanted. 

Jaina’s gaze was drawn back to Ngashk. She stood close to Tsaadu, head bent to speak softly. The troll had her hands clasped to her chest, and was looking up at Ngashk as if she were a sunrise. 

Jaina looked away. Walked over to Yaghna. 

“He will have headache,” the old orc rasped, still holding his head. Jaina could see the faintest hint of blue-green light where her wrinkled hand met his skull. Blood pouring from his nose, smeared across his mouth and jaw. “Bruised pride. And face. And belly. But will live, and fight again." 

“Thank you,” said Jaina. 

“Thank _you,”_ said Yaghna. “Much talking to allow this, yes?” 

“Nothing some honeyed tea couldn’t fix.” 

“All the same.” She let go of the vanquished warrior and stood, leaning on her staff for support. “Aka’magosh, khulu’goraak.” 

_A blessing upon you and yours, honored chieftain._

It was Jaina who bowed her head this time, just slightly, and gave the elder a soft orcish salute. 

Then she turned to the lovebirds. 

Ngashk now stood beside Tsaadu, rather than over her, but they were holding hands, fingers interlaced. 

A smile pulled at Jaina’s lips as she approached. She glanced at Mayana, over at the fruit stand, and found her happily crunching her apple, talking with her mouth full to the amused vendor. Unbothered by the display of affection.

“Lady.” Ngashk let go of Tsaadu’s hand to kneel and salute once more. 

Jaina didn’t know when she’d seen a human knight kneel, but the combination of the human and orcish gestures put a warm feeling in her chest.

“Rise, Kronazuk,” Jaina stopped a few paces away, looking entirely at Ngashk’s face and not at all at the slight sheen of sweat that had formed on her powerful torso. “Thank you for ending it so cleanly.”

Ngashk smirked as she stood, hazel eyes glinting mischievously. “How you say in Common? Reward in-and-of-itself?”

“That’s… how you say it, yes.” 

She looked very pleased with herself. 

Tsaadu looked like she wanted to do some pleasing. 

“What will happen to him?” Jaina asked, using Brogotan as an excuse to avert her eyes. 

“I send him back to Orgrimmar. His mind too narrow for guarding embassy. Should never have bring him here.” 

“Probably not,” said Tsaadu, voice husky, “but I think the spectacle was well worth the risk.” 

Quite. 

Jaina nodded, cheeks aflame. “You two have a good day.” 

The ambassador slipped a lithe arm around the packleader’s solid waist. “Oh, we will.” 

Jaina quickly but politely excused herself, and headed for her tower, savoring the early morning calm. 

Logan fell into step beside her, armor clinking as he walked. 

“It true he’d been making passes at ‘er? Got jealous?” 

“And xenophobic, but yes. That’s my understanding.” 

Logan chuckled. “Serves ‘im right.” 

Jaina allowed herself a _bit_ of a smirk. 

“Don’t ‘spose you’d let me trounce the next bloke who thinks ‘no’ means ‘convince me?’” 

“...is that a routine problem for you?”

He shrugged. “Bit more routine than I’d like. I’m tempted t’let ‘em know who they’re really coming onto, sometimes.” 

Right. “How are you doing with that, by the way?”

Logan thought about that for a few yards. The tower loomed before them, dew shining on the tufts of wild grass that had taken root along the seam between walls and cobblestones. 

“I dunno,” he said at last. “I mean yeah, being called the wrong name and… pro-whatsits feels icky, but… this isn’t Dalaran. My duty to Theramore comes before anything else. I don’t know how the men would react, you know? They've dealt with so much change already. Can't afford to lose their confidence." 

Jaina frowned. “They might surprise you.” 

“Yeah.” He looked down at his boots. “But I don’t wanna gamble Theramore’s security on a ‘might.’” 

She… couldn’t actually argue with that, and it felt shitty. 

“You din’t answer my question.” 

She glanced back up. “Hm?”

“Whether I can duel some sense into the next bloke that thinks it’s appropriate t’flirt with the General.” 

Jaina suddenly felt slightly ill. 

_Maybe we should meet like this more often._

Light have mercy. 

“I, ah—” _am an idiot I’m an_ **_idiot_ **“I suppose such advances could, under certain circumstances, be considered an insult to one’s honor. And thus grounds for a duel. Legally.” 

Logan grinned. “Brilliant.” 

Soon they arrived at the entrance to the tower. Two guardsmen flanked the iron-bound oak doors, halberds held stiffly at their sides. 

Both saluted as the Lady and General approached. 

Jaina paused there, a dozen reassurances surfacing in her mind, all too close to Logan’s secret to be spoken in public. 

She settled for laying a hand on the cool steel of his pauldron. 

“One day,” she said, for lack of anything better. 

_One day we will make them understand._

He smiled tentatively. “One day.” 

Then he snapped his heels together, and bent slightly from the hip. “Milady.” 

She nodded. “General.” 

  
  
  


*****

  
  
  


By the time she reached the top of the stairs, Jaina was ready to tear her hair out. 

She’d _propositioned_ her Warchief, her _king_. She'd come onto him like an apprentice with a crush, despite every practical reason not to. 

Reasons he was clearly well aware of, and clung to as _she_ should’ve—

And instead of responding, he’d _ended the conversation._

Jaina’s cheeks burned with humiliation. 

It didn't _matter_ that he wanted her too. They couldn't. They _couldn't._

Tides, what had she done to their friendship? To their working relationship? She’d told him not to risk the safety of the Horde for her comfort, and in the next breath put her fucking _infatuation_ before the needs of their people. 

How could he respect her now? 

How could he trust her? 

A soft, uncertain voice broke through her thoughts. 

“Khulu’goraak.” 

Atsurana stood near the door to her study, shawl draped over her leather armor and knotted in her fists. She was looking at the floor between them, head slightly bowed. 

“Khogash’gal.” _Apprentice._ “What brings you here?” 

The girl’s eyes darted to her feet, Jaina’s feet, the door… “I must…” Her face scrunched in frustration. “Bin mog va’arm khun’ghuruk-ong, ro togorong.” _I beg your understanding, and your forgiveness._ “Ahruthak akta il gamarogahn-ang.” _I reached beyond what I could control._

“I understand,” said Jaina. 

Atsurana’s eyes darted up to meet hers, gaze still guarded and unsure. 

“The same thing happened to me several times during my training.” 

Those eyes widened. 

“It did. It’s why I decided to specialize in frost magic. Fire is a difficult and dangerous element. Nowhere near as dangerous as the Fel,” Jaina quickly amended, “but if not tightly controlled, it will devour your mana like kindling and burn out of control.” 

“How…” Atsurana’s accent was thick with fear. “How do I stop it?”

“With discipline and focus.” Jaina undid both the magical and physical locks of her study door with a wave of her hand, and beckoned the girl in. “Has this happened before? Losing control of it?”

Atsurana lingered nervously in the middle of the room. She shook her head. 

“Then you are already better with fire magic than I ever was.” 

Atsurana unclenched her hands from the fabric of her shawl, but the tension remained in her shoulders, the slight hunch of her back, as if she were trying to make herself smaller. Less of a target. 

Jaina’s heart ached for her. 

“Would you like to sit?” She asked. “Perhaps something to drink?”  
Atsurana glanced between her, Pained, and the extra chair by the desk. 

Nodded. 

Jaina smiled in a way she hoped was encouraging, and went to fetch a pitcher of water from the corner. 

Behind her, the chair creaked. 

Along with the pitcher, she retrieved two cups… and paused, her back to the girl. 

What would Atsurana think, if she knew what Jaina had done? Tried to do? 

Would she still seek her approval?

_Stop it, Jaina. Focus. She needs your help, not your self-loathing._

She forced herself to smile again, and walked back over, setting the cups on the desk and filling them. Then she sat in her own chair, across from the girl. 

“I’m glad you came to me,” she said, and it was only partly a lie. “I don’t know what Ysuria told you, but such slip-ups are entirely expected of apprentices such as yourself. There is nothing to be ashamed of.”

Atsurana sipped her water, not meeting Jaina’s gaze. 

“You are here because your elders saw that you are worthy, and that your reasons for seeking power and knowledge are honorable. I happen to agree with that assessment, and I look forward to helping you come into your power. You have nothing to prove, Atsurana.” 

That made her look up, eyes wide. And slightly red. 

“You…” she swallowed. “You will not punish me?”

Fuck. 

_“No,”_ said Jaina, more fiercely than she meant to. “You do not deserve punishment. You deserve guidance. We will not hurt you. We will not discard you.” 

Atsurana looked about a few more words from crying. She took a shaky breath, cup clutched tight in her hands—

The scrying orb lit up, glowing through the handkerchief draped over it. 

Atsurana stiffened. 

Jaina’s heart _thumped_ against her ribs. 

“It’s alright,” she forced herself to say. Her mouth was dry, her heart thumping hard— “Someone just needs to talk to me. I’ll see you in class tomorrow?”

Atsurana tore her eyes away from the glowing fabric and nodded. Set down her cup with shaking hands. She stood and hurried to the door, at the last minute remembering to turn and salute before all but fleeing. 

Pained stepped closer to the desk. 

Jaina took a deep breath, and pulled the handkerchief off her scrying orb. 

_“Hello?”_

A woman’s face looked out at her, distorted by the curve of the crystal… but _familiar._ That sleek silver hair, those arched brows and regal cheekbones—

Archmage Modera grinned, relief visible in her faint lines of her face.

_“Jaina! By the Light, it_ **_is_ ** _you!”_

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> NEXT: Contact 
> 
>   
> *collapses*  
> This was thirty pages in gdocs.  
> Gonna go sleep for 12 hours and boost my serotonin w all your lovely comments when I return  
> Logan is originally from Kul Tiras, so his accent is like... soft cockney or something? Idk Blizz isn't consistent w this stuff  
> Mayana, as you may have noticed, is somewhat inspired by Tracer. So her dialogue has ended up being *super* cockney, even though she's from the mainland... don't @ me


End file.
